Wayfarers
by Stealth Dragon
Summary: The nightmare is over. It's time to go home. The team's journey back to Atlantis. Team fic and whump.
1. Chapter 1

**Wayfarers**

by

Stealth Dragon

Rating – T

Disclaimer – I do not own Stargate Atlantis. A bunch of other people do.

Synopsis – The nightmare is over. It's time to go home. A tale of the team's journey back to Atlantis. This starts out seeming like a dark fic but actually isn't, especially when compared to my story Two Way Street. Though there is dark content involved (mentions of torture, injuries) it's actually pretty light.

A/N: **Important**! This story is a WIP. That's right. Horror of horrors Stealth is writing a WIP! But that's not the half of it. I'm also writing it at my leisure, _and_ making it up as I go. Whaaaaaat! You ask? The deal with this story is that it's one plot but will involve different adventures and/or encounters with each chapter, making each chapter its own story while sticking to the same plot. This means long chapters and no cliffhangers. It also means that postings will be sporadic, and the length of the story is unknown. It could end up going for quite a few chapters, or end up being only a few chapters depending on what I'm able to come up with. Posts may be weekly, but also may not appear for several weeks. I'm also open to any ideas or suggestions you may have for each adventure or what you would like to see happen. Some ideas I may work with, some ideas I may get other ideas from, and some ideas I may not use at all.

The reason I started this story was to have something to write and post out of boredom, and to satiate any sudden desires to use a particular idea (ex. Someone falling into a river and being swept away, or someone getting beat up) without resorting to thinking up whole new plots and writing separate one-shots. I don't intend for this story to be drawn out forever, but it may be a while before you see the end. It's also not a high priority story – hence the 'writing at my leisure part'. So updates will happen when they happen. But don't worry, like I said, there will be no major, nail-biting cliffhangers or any such as. Each chapter will have a resolution before going on to the next. You'll see what I mean as you read.

Rest assured, it will be completed eventually.

SGA

Teyla wrapped the plain brown shawl tighter around her shoulders when the wind tried to buffet it away. She wrinkled her nose and tried again the breathe through her mouth when the sick-sweet rot-scent slipped up her nostrils. It was strongest to be unavoidable whenever her foot snagged a limp arm from the newly dead or a stiff, pock-marked leg of the old dead. She picked her way through the carnal pit, nothing more than a dry river bed that would never see water again. Insects hummed in black clouds over the mountain of ragged, bloated bodies of white flesh sloughing off bone.

Teyla looked up when the old bearded man, Beornin, bent to lift a body that was nothing more than a rag doll, weighing so little not even the skinny man had to put forth much effort. He turned, and skittered down the pile of bodies, making his way toward Teyla.

"Is this your Sheppard?"

Teyla looked at the skeletal man in Beornin's arms. This man had hair the color of sand. Teyla shook her head. Beornin sighed dejectedly for her sake. "We will find him."

Beornin turned away to scale the muddy incline back to the top, where he would wrap the body in a blanket and place it with the other living. The masters of the Corakt mines didn't care for the living or the dead, for pulses and stilled hearts, for moving chests or what Dr. McKay referred to as rigormortis. When a body stopped moving, it was discarded. They did not waste effort in keeping it alive.

Teyla's bare foot kicked away a scrap of cloth revealing the genderless face of a child. She quickly looked away, her throat working to push back the bile.

Beornin had brought them to the carnal pits when they came asking about the tall, dark haired man who had been sent to the mines. Beornin had overheard the team discussing their failure at finding Sheppard, and suggested the pits. Beornin went to the pits often, seeking those not quite walking with death. He was used to the smell of the dead, and the dead themselves. He did not turn away as he searched, and neither did those that accompanied him: his wife, sons, daughters, and their sons and daughters. Beornin had survived the pits, and had vowed to help others do the same, because it could be done. He was a rarity on this world.

Teyla bent when she thought she saw a tuft of dark hair. She tugged on it, and the half-decayed skull of a woman pulled away before the skin the hair was attached to disintegrated and detached. Teyla dropped it snatching her hand back in disgust. The bile rose higher, burning her throat and the back of her tongue, but she had nothing left in her stomach to expel.

The last Teyla had seen of Sheppard, he'd been standing on the auction stage. The reverberating 'sold' had made Teyla flinch. She'd watched as he was carted away by his buyer, a man who thought John had a pretty face. A man who didn't give John anything to cover his half-naked body because, obviously, he liked looking at it. John had stood tall and defiant, but Teyla had seen him shivering. Her only consolation was that she had known it hadn't been out of fear.

According to Beornin, the only reason John would have ended up in the mines after being bought for pleasure purposes was because he had ended up being decidedly _uncooperative_. So much so the owner had no choice but to get rid of him. Hearing this had made Teyla smile, Ronon even more so.

Teyla moved away from the bodies for a clearer path, keeping the dead in her peripheral, turning only when her gaze caught dark hair.

Teyla had been uncooperative with the man who had bought her. But the man had been stubborn, and put her to work out in the fields in the hopes of wearing her down until docile. She wasn't the only one, the only 'interest,' and the women knew ways of keeping themselves 'undesirable'. Teyla had grown so accustomed to the smell of her own stench she hadn't even known it had existed until Rodney wrinkled his nose at her.

"Teyla!"

Teyla snapped her head up at Ronon's bellow. She held her shawl with one hand in order to hike up her frayed brown skirt with the other, and ran. She saw, ahead, Ronon lifting a pale body that appeared to have tumbled down the pile.

Tumbled or crawled.

She saw the hair before she saw the face, but wanted more than anything to see the face. Ronon closed the distance in heading toward her, carrying the limpid body with its loose, swinging limbs; with no effort, it seemed. Teyla skidded to a halt. She didn't look at the body's face, just Ronon's. His face was streaked with dirt, blood, and a scar running from his left eye to his jaw, thread thin to eventually fade.

"He's alive," Ronon said.

Teyla looked down at the face.

It was Sheppard's. The skin was pulled tight around the skull forming juts and angles, but it was him. He was all sharp, knobby bones and joints trying to tear through paper-thin flesh. He had on only ragged pants that barely fit, no shirt. Teyla placed her hand on the cool skin of his chest, against the delicate ribs vivid as the bars of a cage. She wasn't going to settle for a pulse. She wanted the heartbeat, and got the heartbeat struggling in its rhythm, timid but steady. She all but melted in relief, and swiped at her eyes that suddenly blurred.

Teyla looked up at Ronon. "We can go home, now."

Ronon nodded.

Teyla removed her shawl and placed it over John's body. She had a sudden loathing toward anyone other than his team seeing him like this. She knew John would not like it. Ronon turned and began scaling the incline, Teyla following. She curled her toes and fingers into the soft mud, holding out one hand to steady Ronon whenever he faltered. A terrible image of John shattering should he be dropped kept popping into Teyla's head.

On reaching the top, they headed to the cluster of wagons where McKay waited wrapped in the white and gold embroidered robes of a citadel cleric. He stood up from his seat in one of the wagon beds on Teyla's and Ronon's approach.

"You found him?" McKay called.

"We found him," Ronon said, accusatory. He was still angry that Rodney had refused to help. He would get over it, eventually. Teyla had not blamed Rodney from the start. It had been easy to assume that Rodney had gotten the better end of servitude. He was not starved, he was not filthy, and the fine robes told the rest.

They didn't tell the truth. Rodney did; in actions, never words. At this very moment he kept glancing around like a small, nervous animal caught out in the open. He was twitchy, and flinched if so much as a hand was raised. He was also thinner, paler, too cautious and a little too quite. All of it together said more than fine robes ever could. Rodney's time at the citadel had not been pleasant.

Rodney gaped when he saw Sheppard. "Oh no..." then he jolted and scurried to the wagon piled with blankets, pulling one from the top then laying it out on the ground for Ronon to set John down. Ronon passed Teyla back her shawl, then cocooned John in the old green blanket. He scooped John gently back into his arms like he would a child.

Beornin hobbled over to them, smiling sadly. "You have found him, then," he said. "He is most fortunate to have friends such as you."

"And we are fortunate to have met you," said Teyla. "How can we ever repay you?"

Beornin chuckled softly. "You can repay me by keeping your friend alive and taking him home. That is how you can repay me. And you can start by bringing him to my wife. She will look him over for you."

Beornin's wife, Genna, was outside their house wagon tending fires and stews with her daughters and granddaughters. When John was brought to her, she had Ronon lay him out on one of the pallets set up within the circle of house wagons. The old woman with the silver hair tied in a bun groaned when her knees creaked as she knelt beside John's too-still body. She pulled the two halves of the blanket apart, then instructed two of her daughters to go fetch various items.

Genna pressed her gnarled hand into John's chest over his heart. She peeled back his eye-lids, then pressed her ear to his chest listening to him breathe. She, next, carefully rolled him onto his side to expose his back cross-hatched in thin scar tissue and scabs.

Genna clucked her tongue. "The masters of the mines are vicious brutes." Her daughters, along with several granddaughters, returned carrying buckets of steaming water, cloths, and trays covered in bowls of herbal water.

"Teyla, my dear," Genna said. "Would you help? It would be better if someone your friend knew cleaned him. He may wake up, and it would frighten him otherwise. You two boys, you go warm yourselves by the fires and help yourselves to some stew."

Neither man left. Teyla moved forward and knelt beside Genna.

Genna gave her a wistful smile. "To be that young again." She handed Teyla a cloth. Teyla dipped it into a bucket, and with Genna began wiping away layers of filth to separate dirt from bruising.

Much bruising. Too much. It constricted Teyla's heart when what she took to be dirt would not wipe away. When they finished, Genna passed her hands over the protruding bones looking for breaks. Two breaks in the ribs, two broken fingers, and a swollen ankle that had been severely twisted. Genna took the bowls of herbal water and dabbed the mixture onto the lacerations on John's back. After that, she took strips of cloth, instructing Teyla to hold John up as she wrapped the cloths around John's chest. She continued to have Teyla hold John when one of her daughters brought a steaming mug. Genna placed the mug to John's cracked lips and tilted while rubbing John's throat with her other hand.

"Helps him to swallow," Genna explained. "This bit of broth will aid him in making him strong, enough to bring him back from the precipice of eternal sleep. It has helped all those who were left to the pits."

Teyla looked around at the other pallets already occupied. Genna's daughters and granddaughters were doing to the other half-living as Genna was doing to John. Most of the half-living were adults, one was a teenage girl, another a small boy. The boy awoke abruptly to begin wailing. The woman tending him gathered him into her arms, rocking him, comforting him.

These were good people, and simply being in their presence gave Teyla a sense of hope she thought she'd forgotten how to feel.

"You can lay him back down," Genna said. Teyla returned her attention back to John. She set him down gently, and Genna pulled the halves of the blankets back over John's chest. She looked over at Teyla, and her smile made Teyla's heart swell in another surge of hope.

"I can tell he is a strong one," Genna said. "And if cared for, he will live. When you feel ready to begin your journey home, I will give you a flask of meeta broth. It is for your friend only. It is all he is to have to eat until it is all gone. After that, soups and stews only, or bread soaked in water. Your friend may be strong in his heart but his body is very weak, and starting him on richer foods too soon will make him worse. It may be some time before he is able to move on his own. And he must be kept warm. He will be very susceptible to the cold. Alhough it may not seem like it in this mild weather, winter will soon be upon us, and it sometimes comes without warning."

Teyla nodded. "I understand."

Genna took her hand and patted it in a motherly way. "I already know your friend is in good hands." She shifted her maternal gaze to John, and placed her wrinkled hand on the top of his head. "He needs only rest, and assurances that he is safe." She smoothed his hair back before looking at Teyla again. "Now go, eat. And think not of the carnal pits. They are only a memory now, and let them remain as that. Think only of the ones we saved, not of the ones we couldn't."

Genna then bowed her head, and Teyla touched her smooth forehead to the wrinkled one. Beornin's family came from this world, but did not stay on it, and knew the customs of many cultures. When they pulled away, Teyla rose first to help Genna who grunted and creaked. Genna patted Teyla's arm in thanks before shuffling off to help another. Teyla lingered, staring down at John, absorbing his face, his presence. She crouched back down, brushing his hair back as Genna had, absorbing his feel. She didn't want to leave him, even if it was to move a few feet away to one of the fires. But she had to because she was cold, hungry, and John wouldn't like it if he knew.

She turned to Ronon and Rodney standing a few feet away, waiting. Teyla joined them and they headed to the nearest fire, sitting down on one of the blankets set out.

"Well?" Rodney asked, holding shaking hands out to the flames.

"Genna has done all she can. The rest is up to us. She says he will live."

Rodney nodded – no condescending litany of insults toward 'back-water' healers, no rapid questions born of anxiety. Rodney had been very accepting of the ways of this world since Ronon had ghosted him out of the citadel. "Live, good. That's all that matters." He was nervous, and anxious, even with the relief of hearing that John would live.

They were brought bowls and spoons to help themselves to the stew bubbling in the black pot on the fire. The stew was warm, thick, full of vegetables and meat. They were given water in tins cups and a slice of bread. Rodney ate fast, half the time burning his mouth. It was as though if he didn't eat quickly enough, the food would vanish, and Teyla wondered if that had, at one time for Rodney, been the case. Ronon took large bites, wholly focused on his food. Teyla had found him first in one of the cells of the fighting arena. He had been easy to free. The guard had been drunk, and Teyla had been... _suggestive_. When the guard was busy pulling down his pants, Teyla had knocked him out with the hilt of a sword. Rodney had not been so easy. Teyla had disguised herself as a household maid to locate him, and Ronon had slipped into the citadel like a thief to steal McKay away. After that, they had escaped the city through the underground sewers.

Rodney had managed to learn about the man who had taken John. They'd gone to the man's house only to learn that the "tall, thin, dark haired one" had been sold to the mines. That eventually brought them to Beornin.

He'd asked if they'd take their friend's body even if it was dead, since so few do. They would have, Teyla had no doubts. They would have brought him back as a corpse, and the relief that he wasn't was nauseating. He would not be brought back a corpse, not if they could help it, and they would.

When they finished their meals, buckets of warm water were brought to them to allow them to wash. An area had been set up just within the woods along the road where bathing could be done in private: cloths hung from lines to form the walls of cubicles. The three of them lugged their individual buckets to these little rooms. One of Genna's daughters brought Teyla an old brown brush skirt and faded, white shirt. Beornin's family always kept extra clothes handy for those they found. They also made their living sewing clothes.

Teyla removed the filthy clothes she'd worn out in the fields, then began scrubbing herself down with the cloth that stained fast from her arm alone. She heard a sharp intake of breath from the other side of the blanket, then a yelp of pain. Teyla moved just enough for a peek through the space between the two adjacent blankets. She saw Rodney, his back, pale and criss-crossed with scabbed lashes and mottled with bruising. He flinched and cringed whenever the cloth caught on a scab.

Teyla stepped away, feeling her face flush in heated anger, but not at Rodney. Never at Rodney.

She hated this world.

Teyla washed swiftly, then dressed swiftly, and found a modicum of comfort in having a clean body and dressed in clean clothes. She left the bathing area with her bucket and cloth to return them, and go sit with John.

---------------------------------

They decided to depart the next morning, get in as early a start as possible before the cold came. Beornin and Genna provided them with satchels of food and skins of water. Helping others had become so much their way of life that they always prepared for it; trading hand-made clothes for extra food and used clothes to give to those they healed back to health. They gave Teyla and Rodney shoes, and a shirt and better trousers for John (even though they were still too big for him). Ronon still had his own clothes, his leather coat, even his gun that he'd stolen back during the escape from the fighting arena.

Teyla hugged both Beornin and Genna. She still marveled at the fortune of running into such good people, and it twisted her up inside that she could not pay them back properly. She vowed that when she returned home, she would have her people spread word of Beornin and Genna, so that others on other worlds should go out of their way to trade with them and help them. It was all Teyla had to offer. She did not tell Beornin and Genna of this since they would only insist that she do no such thing, and that keeping John alive would be payment enough.

They finally parted taking the road away from the carnal pits and further away from the capital city of Arthnast, which did not feel far enough away in Teyla's opinion. The weather was mild, but over cast, and the air moist and smelling of water, moss, and wood. Ronon carried John wrapped in a blanket with little effort. Teyla stood on his right, and Rodney his left. All three carried a satchel and water skin each, Teyla the skin containing the broth for John as well. She wore Ronon's holster with his weapon around her waist since Ronon's hands were literally full.

"Genna said that once we reach the mountains, there will be caves to take shelter in along the path," Teyla said. "But they will have to be looked for."

She expected Rodney to complain, _wanted_ him to complain, and was sorely disappointed. She wished she could take back all the times she'd longed for Rodney to keep his mouth in check. Silence did not suit him, and she missed his sound.

When night came, they made camp off the side of the road in a clearing deep within the woods. Teyla sat against a tree holding John upright, while Ronon gathered wood that Rodney lit using a rock and a knife one of Beornin's sons had given him for protection. Rodney muttered curses concerning the knife and rock having mother's that were the female version of the earth creatures called dogs. Soon, a spark finally caught on the small pile of wood shavings. Rodney barked out a triumphant 'finally!' and blew on the smoldering shavings until they caught and the fire spread to the wood.

Ronon crouched beside Teyla to take John so she could feed him his cup of broth. Ronon held him upright, and Teyla tipped the cup to the unresponsive lips with one hand, while massaging John's throat with the other as Genna had taught her. She did this until she felt the muscles of John's neck cord and his throat convulse as he swallowed on his own. When the throat stopped moving, Teyla resumed massaging it until the entire cup was taken. She then positioned John more comfortably against Ronon's shoulder allowing the Satedan to free up his hand to have his own meal of bread, cheese and water.

"How long until we reach the 'gate?" Rodney asked around a mouthful of cheese.

"Genna said a week on foot, should the snow not come early."

Rodney snorted spraying cheese and bread crumbs. "If this weather gets any warmer the trees are going to start blooming."

"Genna said not to be fooled by this weather," Teyla countered. "The warmth comes before the cold, she said. It tends to throw many off. Both the cold and snow occur without warning." She looked over at John wrapped in the green blanket. She was worried. For all of them, yes, but when the cold came and they did not find shelter during the night, John would be the first to succumb.

Rodney made no biting retort. He fell into a brooding silence, although Teyla had the feeling that he wanted to say something. She suspected the lashes on his back the product of training him to keep his tongue still. John had always said, time and again, that Rodney's mouth kept getting him into trouble. Her heart broke for Rodney, yet a small part of her twinged with the satisfaction of knowing that Rodney had probably insulted his captors many times before finally submitting to the punishments. Rodney was a stubborn man. His captors had not broken him completely, or he would have not made his biting comment concerning the weather.

The night was cool, not cold, but Teyla was not going to take any chances. She had them sleep packed side by side: Ronon, John, herself, and Rodney. She was against John's back, with one had resting on his ribs she could feel even through the blanket, rising and falling, the only motion he had to make. The rhythm comforted her until it lulled her to sleep.

Morning came gray, dry, and bitingly cold. Teyla woke up stiff and shivering. She turned her head back to see Rodney stirring up the fire and Ronon tossing on more wood. When the fire flared back to life, Ronon came over and gathered John up to lean the thinner body against his more solid frame as he sat against a tree. Teyla pushed herself upright, rolling her shoulders to loosen frozen muscles. She moved slow as she poured broth into the tin cup, setting it close to the fire to warm. Rodney handed her some bread, cheese and water. She ate slow to buy time for the broth. When finished, she felt the cup that was warm in her hands, then shifted with it over to John, tipping it toward his lips while rubbing his throat. She stopped when his throat moved on its own and did not need to be coaxed.

Teyla smiled. "I believe he is regaining some strength," she said. She brushed back John's hair that was almost flat from dirt and oils, trying to get it to stick back up.

The fire that they'd just renewed Rodney kicked and stomped out before they started off again. They kept close to each other as they walked, pressing arm to arm, hunched against the cold. The cold sharpened as the day progressed, adding drizzle that spat like ice-crystals into Teyla's face. She glanced over at Sheppard often, so saw the gradual increase of his shivering. By the firmness of the path, the more widely spaced trees, and sharp rocks protruding from the dirt like bones, they were within one of the narrow mountain valleys, which meant caves.

"We should find shelter," Teyla announced. "While it is still daylight."

Ronon grunted in agreement and handed John off to Rodney. Rodney had a terrified expression on his face as he gathered John into his arms. He was all ready to protest, opening his mouth, only to snap it shut. Instead, he gave Teyla a helpless look. Teyla responded with a smile.

"You are doing fine, Rodney. You are not hurting John."

There was more to it than that. Rodney was thoroughly disturbed, which was expected. John's tall frame was not supposed to be so easy to carry.

Ronon returned just as the sky crept toward an early twilight. "Found a place."

"Bear free, right?" Rodney asked, passing John back to Ronon.

Ronon furrowed his brow. "Bear?"

"Animal. Any signs of animals that might normally be hanging out at this cave you found. Droppings, bones..."

"Neither," Ronon said as he began leading the way. It wasn't far, just to a cliff-wall hidden behind a large copse of trees. The cave entrance was a split in the rock that Ronon had to duck and angle to get into, making sure the insubstantial burden in his arms did not get bumped or scraped. There was a flickering, amber light at the other end that opened up into a good sized cave that, though not impressive in height, was wide enough for them to move about. A fire had already been started. Ronon set John down next to it using one of the packs as a pillow. He rolled John toward the fire and opened the blanket at the pilot's chest for the fire to heat. He then began to rub John's chest in gentle circles to increase warmth. John's shivering quickly subsided.

Teyla poured broth into the cup and set it by the fire to warm. A thin sliver of cold air snaked its way through the cave entrance to brush the back of Teyla's neck. She shivered, tugging the collar of her coat up around her neck. Fire light sparkled off sand-grain sized crystals embedded into the cave wall striated in brown, black, cream, and red. The colors gave the cave warmth though the stone was cool to the touch. Outside the wind howled, and there was a pattering sound like heavy drops of rain slapping leaves. Except there were no leaves.

"Rain must have frozen," Rodney idly commented, answering out loud what they were all probably wondering. "It'll probably turn to snow later."

Teyle picked up the warmed cup and scooted around the fire to John. Ronon also moved to lift John without being asked. Teyla brought the cup to the Colonel's mouth and tilted. No massaging this time, John took the broth, even lifting one hand feebly to either take the cup or tilt it further, but accomplishing neither. His arm didn't even reach past his chest when it dropped lifelessly back to the floor. When the cup was empty, Teyla used the cuff of her sleeve to wipe John's mouth.

"The broth is working, giving him strength," she said. Ronon set John back on the floor to free up his own hands to eat. They were silent as they had their dinner. Teyla didn't like it, but felt uncomfortable breaking it. It was a tense silence, fragile as a glass bottle, full of things that needed to be said or wanted to be said. Things Teyla did not want to hear though she would have said them herself. The weather was deteriorating, and the gate was still a long ways off. They only had so much food, and though Sheppard was getting stronger, he wasn't strong enough to withstand the cold. And they were all tired.

Teyla's hope withered a little. When they all finished eating, they moved Sheppard so they could surround him as they slept, forming a nest of human bodies and warmth. Teyla reached out placing her hand on his flank to feel the rise and fall that helped her sleep.

It was a deep sleep, one without dreams, or dreams that would not be remembered except in snatches like leaves fluttering away in the wind.

"Uh, guys? We have a problem."

Teyla awoke to a smoke-scented cave cast in the silver light of another gray morning. She heard a low, almost mournful wail that was familiar and unsettling, making her shiver. She rolled onto her back enough to turn her head and see Rodney, keeping his coat and robe wrapped tight around him, standing at the cave entrance. Through the narrow opening, Teyla saw only a solid wall of white. A blast of frigid wind sent fat, white flakes swirling toward them.

Rodney looked back at Teyla. Even in the poor light, she saw the wide whites of his eyes, and the pallor of his face.

"This is bad."

"Good thing I prepared," said Ronon. Teyla pushed herself up to turn enough and see Ronon stirring the fire with a fresh log, then tossing it on. He pointed to a small pile of limbs, sticks, and strips of bark against the wall across from the entrance.

"Ronon," Teyla said in awe. "When did you do this?"

"Little before dawn, when it was light enough to see. Snow wasn't coming in bad yet, so I grabbed what I could. Most of it's wet, but not bad, and I found some dry pieces to keep the fire going."

"You could have gotten lost," Rodney admonished, using irritation to cover his ever-so-obvious fear.

"I didn't go far," Ronon calmly countered.

"Rodney," Teyla said. "What Ronon did needed to be done, and he knows how to survive in the wild. Come, sit by the fire. We will wait the storm out, and use the time to rest."

They breakfasted on smaller portions of bread, this time with no cheese. Teyla gave John his broth that he took the moment it entered his mouth. They then curled back up on the floor, surrounding John who was huddled looking small beneath the blanket.

This time Teyla did dream.

She was running through the fields, because he was chasing her, the man who called himself her master. He wanted her, and didn't care if she fought back. He would just kill her if she did. That's what all the other women had told her. The master kills when he grows weary of the females who fight back. So she ran without seeing where she was going. Her foot met open air, and she was falling and falling, down into a ravine of white, bloated bodies of ragged skin and fleshless skulls.

"No!"

Teyla snapped awake. That hadn't been her cry. Something solid smacked into her calf shooting a dull throb up her leg. All sleep fled from her and she could see in the weak firelight the mound that was John writhing and struggling.

"No," came the muffled moan, then louder. "No!" John suddenly emerged from beneath the blanket, crawling on his stomach, struggling to get over Ronon who was blocking his way.

"John!" Teyla yelped, and lurched forward to grab his arm. John screamed and fought with the terror of a wounded and cornered animal. It was a terror that gave him strength to pull his arm back and claw his way over Ronon's body. Ronon woke and made a grab for John. John screamed again, struggling, writhing, jerking, bucking, trying to break free.

"No, no, no, no, no!" Over and over. Rodney lunged forward wrapping his arm around John's thin waist and hauling him back. John thrust himself forward trying to escape, wide-eyed, mouth gaping, and breaths ripping to and from him in ragged, unsteady gulps.

"Ah, crap, he's hyperventilating!" Rodney yelled.

Teyla clamored getting tangled in the blanket and dropping to kneel in front of John. She grabbed his face, holding it in place for them to lock gazes. The terror she saw in him shocked her dumb. It was pure, raw, and senseless. Something inhuman, something that did not even encompass survival, just total irrationality. It was a terror she had never seen in John, or any human for that matter – except for one, a man in a cocoon on a hive ship, begging for his life.

Teyla dug her fingers into John's cheekbones and her thumbs into his jaw. She was purposely causing him pain, knowing pain would be the only sensation to reach and ground him.

"John, look at me, listen to me. You are all right, you are safe now..."

"Dead," he rasped, wild-eyes vacant. "Dead, dead, dead, you're dead, you're dead, you're all dead, dead, dead, dead..."

Teyla's eyes pricked with tears. She pressed harder, dug deeper, feeling only bone as though there was no skin. "John," she gritted on a half-sob. "We are not dead. We are alive. You are alive. And you are safe now. Please, John."

Strength drained out of him, enough for her to let up on her hold and begin stroking his face. "Do you feel that?" she asked. "You know I am real. And if I am real then you know I am telling you the truth when I say you are safe now. Please John, please listen to me."

John blinked. The terror faded from him, replaced by confusion, fear; but all human, and all John.

"Teyla," he gasped between heaving breaths. His skin was cool and light, and he was shivering uncontrollably.

"His heart's really pounding, people. Isn't that a bad thing in his condition?"

John perked. "Rodney?"

Rodney pried one hand from around John to pat his shoulder. "The one and only. Done panicking yet so I can let you go? Your spine's kind of poking me in the chest here."

John melted, slumping in Rodney's arms.

"I'll take that as a yes," Rodney said, and transferred John over to Ronon who pulled the skinny man's back up against his chest. Teyla scooted back for Ronon to scoot around and have his own back to the cave entrance, with John facing the fire that Rodney stirred up. Teyla rubbed John's chest then his arms to get the chill out of his skin. John's head lolled against Ronon's shoulder drunkenly, rolling from side to side until finally dropping, his chin resting against his bony chest. Teyla's automatic assumption was that he'd fallen asleep. She adjusted the blanket tighter around him.

"Where're we?" John's voice was a barely discernible croak. "Wha... Hap'nd?"

Teyla placed both hands on either side of his head, lifting his face to reestablish eye contact. "I managed to escape and find the others. You were the last to be found. We were traveling to the Stargate and took shelter in a cave, but a snow storm has struck and we are forced to remain here." She wasn't sure if he was listening. His eyes had become distant, glassy, the heavy lids fighting a loosing battle to stay open.

A pale had slid out from between the blanket, rising unsteady toward Teyla's face. The tips of John's thin fingers brushed feather light and quaking against her jaw.

"You found me." A string of saliva cast gold in the fire light fluttered and stretched from his lips. His words were a statement of disbelief, of hope, of doubt, of fear, of relief. Tears coated his eyes like iridescent glass to trickle fast down his sunken cheeks. Teyla reached up and took his hand in hers, clasping without squeezing and damaging the fragile bones.

"We did not stop looking," she promised.

John sucked in a shuddering breath that made his chest stutter. The emotional onslaught became too much for him, and his eyelids dropped, along with his head, and his body sagged bonelessly.

"Is he all right?" Rodney squeaked with a concern he did not try to hide. Teyla felt John's pulse on the neck with one hand, and wiped away lingering tears with the other. His pulse was strong, steady.

"He is merely exhausted," Teyla said. "We should let him rest."

They moved, shifted, shuffling, scooting, until they were on the other side of the fire, laying down in a protective circle around John. Teyla took John's hand in hers to provide contact should he awake again. She squeezed carefully.

John squeezed back.

-----------------------------

TBC...

A/N: This is just the beginning. The next chapter is mostly written and I'll post when it's ready. The rest, of course, is still pending. Feel free to drop suggestions on what you think could, or would like to see, happen. Just remember that I don't write ships or slash.


	2. Chapter 2

Ch. 2

Sheppard's backbone was digging into Ronon's chest. He had one arm across John's stomach and the other across his chest to keep him as straight as possible. Teyla was handling John's head, tilting it up at the chin as she angled the cup to his lips. She no longer needed to rub his throat, just her knuckles into his chest to get him to wake up.

A few drops of broth slid down John's chin. Teyla removed the cup and wiped the drops away with her coat sleeve. Two days in the caves and it had all become routine. Teyla didn't even have to ask anymore. When she poured the broth, Ronon gathered John to have him ready.

McKay was leaning against the entrance staring out. The storm had finally died down sometime during the night and if they were to reach the gate then they needed to take advantage of the good weather. McKay, however, was frowning as he stared into the uninterrupted white of outside. His eyes would sometimes flick to and from Ronon's direction. More accurately _Sheppard's _direction.

"The sooner we move out," Ronon said, "the farther we get, the sooner we can find the next shelter."

John stirred a little but remained quiet. Teyla was already packing away the food they hadn't eaten. When she finished, she slung a pack over her shoulder, tossing the other pack and water skin to Rodney, who caught it. The science-man's reflexes had been sharp since they found him. He'd yet to fumble, or even trip over hidden roots.

Teyla moved to John and wrapped the blanket tight around him. Ronon slung a pack onto his shoulder, then gathered John into his arms and stood. Teyla adjusted the blanket again around John's head until only his face could be seen. His eyes were open to slits, unfocused and lethargic. He wasn't difficult to carry and that bothered Ronon. Training in the arena, and the fights, had kept him strong. But even if he'd been weak, Sheppard still wouldn't have felt a burden.

It bothered Ronon even more that John had yet to complain about being carried around like a child.

"We should have brought another blanket," McKay said. "He's not going to be warm enough in that. Is he warm enough? He needs another blanket." He took a deep breath and let it out sharply. Rodney was worried. They all were, but Rodney was wearing his worry like clothes. He also flinched away if Ronon so much as formed a fist just to pop his knuckles. And yet Rodney had been hovering like a shadow next to Ronon since leaving the citadel, practically sacrificing his own personal space when they'd weave through the crowded city streets. He was frightened and wary, protective but wanting more to be protected, and doing poorly at trying to hide it.

"He'll be warm," Ronon promised. If he had to, he would walk backwards to keep the wind off Sheppard.

When they were bundled up, geared up, and the fire was kicked and stomped out of existence, they left the warmth of the cave. The air outside was still, but sharp, freezing the membrane within the nose. Teyla led the way through ankle deep snow that was fine and powdery, easy to walk through. It was piled on the tree branches and against the tree trunks in drifts. Their breaths streamed and coiled into thick clouds that curled and twisted before dissolving.

McKay stumbled for the first time in days. "How the hell are was supposed to find the road under all this?"

"Because it will be the only clearing that goes on for miles," Teyla answered wisely.

Ronon moved slower and more cautiously than the others. If he tripped, snow would get on John's blankets, making it wet and making Sheppard cold.

They stumbled onto the road, almost passing it when McKay realized they were in a clearing stretching on too straight to be natural.

"Which way again?" Rodney asked.

Ronon led the way this time. Discerning direction had been just as important a matter of survival as eating and drinking. During his running days, the moment he stepped onto a planet, he'd set out to establish which way was north, south, east, and west. The position of the suns, moss on trees, on rocks, the migration of certain birds; if none of it came through, he'd follow animal herds, find a river and literally go with the flow. If there was no immediate direction to be had through a compass or which side of a tree moss grew on, then he'd make up his own direction.

The most important direction was the one that took him away from the wraith. In this case the city. Ronon would always know which way they needed to go.

"Good gosh," Rodney panted. "We have five more days to trudge through this crap? This snow is going to turn it into ten days. Maybe even a month."

"It is not that bad, Rodney," Teyla said. "The snow is loose and easy to walk through. It will not be a hindrance."

"Say that again after your toes fall off from frost bite. Or when our food runs out."

"Panicking this early isn't going to make a difference," Ronon said. "Focus on getting back to the 'gate. We'll worry about everything else when it's time to worry."

"Frostbite is something to worry about now."

"Not if it keeps you talking for everyone to hear."

McKay tossed his arms up. "What everyone? Where? We're out in the freakin' middle of nowhere trudging through almost two feet of snow. Who the hell would be insane enough to be out here in this damn tundra?"

Ronon would have smiled. He'd actually missed the complaining. Problem was, it was taking place in hostile territory. "Us, for one," Ronon replied. "People desperate as us. And people who pray on the desperate."

"Ronon is right, Rodney," Teyla said, speaking low. "We must be careful and not draw attention to ourselves. Not all dangers involve the wraith."

Rodney sucked in a sharp breath and shivered, more from the cold than the mention of wraith. "Yes, that's all we need is the wraith showing up." He didn't sound frightened about it, just annoyed.

"They would head to the city," Ronon stated, but knew that Rodney was already aware of this. Wraith were the only predators to pick off herds rather than going for the strays. They were the only predators that could. So the only predator they had to worry about was their fellow man.

The road became more of an effort to walk when it inclined over some rise or mountain base. Ronon looked up and to his right at a nearby, snow-drenched peak cut in half by the solid ceiling of silver-white clouds bulging with snow. Solitary flakes swirled and caught in Ronon's eyelashes until he blinked them away. He felt the bony body in his arms shudder and give a small groan. Ronon looked down at Sheppard. The man's eyes were half-lidded, unfocused from sleep, but not so vacant as they regarded Ronon.

"Wr-ai-ttthhh?" It was a whisper, like a hoarse sigh. Ronon pulled John tighter against his chest for his own body heat to bleed through the blanket and help the thinner man. John's body shifted and it felt as though his bones had shifted, as though Ronon had just crushed them. Ronon flicked his tongue over his suddenly dry lips and eased up on his hold. He didn't allow for intimidation since intimidation of any kind was anti-survival, but carrying John was making him nervous. He could crush this man with nothing more than a squeeze and probably not even realize he was doing it.

"No wraith," Ronon said.

John's brow wrinkled in confusion. "Said... Wraith...?"

"We were just talking. McKay too much, as usual."

"Hey!" Rodney barked.

The corner of John's lips twitched toward a weak smile, then his eyes slid shut and his head slumped back against Ronon's shoulder. McKay sidled up to lean in for a peek into the blanket. "Is he awake?"

"Was," Ronon said.

"Is that natural?" McKay looked from John to Ronon. "Sleeping that much?"

Ronon looked down at John. "Probably, depending on what he's been through. He's been through a lot."

Rodney sighed, releasing a thick stream of fogged breath. "We all have...Just not to the point of being tossed onto a body heap."

"Exactly," Ronon said. Rodney gave into sympathy more these days, and selfishness more. The two were in a constant state of flux, like a split personality, one continually trying to dominate the other so neither taking permanent control.

Ronon idly wondered what Sheppard was going to be like when he finally woke up. Twitchy like Rodney? Or withdrawn and silent like Teyla? Or perhaps something else entirely.

A flash of something dark and misshapen flitted out of the corner of Ronon's left eye. He came to an abrupt halt, stiff and still, listening into the perfect, muffled silence. Rodney had moved a little ahead before looking back and stumbling to a halt, wide-eyed and breathing rapid.

"What? Did you hear something? See? Is it Sheppard? Has he stopped breathing? If he's stopped breathing you need to put him on the ground..."

"McKay!" Ronon hissed.

"There is something out there," Teyla explained, and whipped out the blaster.

Rodney's body stiffened until it began to shake. "Oh no," he whimpered. "Oh no. It's people from the city, the citadel. They came looking for us. I knew they would find us..."

"Rodney!" Teyla snapped in a voice that wavered, as though a part of her believed Rodney's words. "Please, stop."

Ronon tightened his hold on Sheppard in a way he hoped wasn't crushing the emaciated man. Motion darted on the right. Ronon snapped his head around, then snapped it around the other way at another shadow flowing spirit-like over the frozen earth. Teyla pivoted in every direction with the blaster held out in her rigid, steady arms.

"They move too fast," she gasped. "I cannot get a lock on any."

"What if it's wraith illusion," Rodney stuttered.

Teyla shook her head. "No wraith."

Ronon could not get a beat on any of the figures. They were there, then gone, on the left, the right, ahead, behind, everywhere. They made no sound, had no form. If Teyla and Rodney had not seen them, Ronon might have considered taking into account that he might simply be going mad. He spun and almost dropped Sheppard, trying to keep one of the forms in sight.

"We need to get out of here," Rodney panted. "We need to run!" And he did.

"McKay!" Ronon roared, pushing off the snow-slick ground to go after him. Both managed only four steps when creatures layered in ragged brown cloaks and skins stepped out from around thick-trunked trees, aiming rifles and crossbows at the four.

"Stay where you are," a creature in white and amber skins with horns curling out of a skull-head barked. The skull-head lifted. Beneath it was a face, human, with a thick auburn beard covering half and a heavy scar bisecting down his right eye. He moved in and the other skin-clad bodies moved in with him, forcing the team back toward each other until they were huddled together, Rodney trying to find a safe place behind Ronon, and Teyla standing in front of John's head.

"Lower your weapon," said the bearded man, "or we will be forced to harm you." The man's blue-gray eyes focused on Sheppard. Ronon twisted himself enough to put himself, relatively, between Sheppard and the bearded man. The bearded man looked from John to Ronon. Ronon saw no malice in the gaze. The man was wound tight with nervous yet tempered caution, but nothing else.

Teyla raised one hand as she crouched to set the blaster on the ground. One of the skin-clad rushed forward, snatched it, then rushed back. Both Teyla and Rodney flinched. She kept her eyes on the weapon as though it were food she desperately wanted but was too afraid to take.

"Please," she said, darting her gaze between the man who took the blaster and the bearded man. "That is our only means of protection. We are simple travelers trying to make our way home. We need that weapon to keep us safe. It is all the weapons we have."

It was a harsh truth to admit. Ronon didn't even have any hidden knives.

The bearded man circled the team, studying them, until he came around to Ronon's front. He moved slowly within reach to pull back the blanket for a look at John's face. Ronon jerked Sheppard's body away from the man. Rifles cocked and crossbows shifted to focus squarely on the runner. Ronon was aware of them, he just didn't care. He curled his lip baring teeth in a snarl at the man.

"You touch him," he growled. "I'll kill you."

The bearded man was in no ways intimidated, but complied by raising both hands and slowly backing away. His eyes flicked from John back to Ronon. "What ails him?"

"U-unsanitary c-conditions," Rodney's voice cracked.

"He is sick with hunger," Teyla said. Her eyes kept moving between the bearded man and the ground, between docility and defiance.

"You've not food to give him?" the man asked.

"He was left starving for too long. He was near death when we found him only a few short days ago. His body is too weak to handle normal foods."

The man nodded his understanding. Then said, "Come with us."

The three exchanged looks, Rodney's frightened and Teyla's uncertain. Ronon was well aware his own was angry. He looked down at Sheppard to see the man's eyes open back into slits, staring hard at Ronon even through the exhaustion, telling Ronon without words to do what would keep them all safe; which meant listening to the bearded man.

The bearded man was waiting, peering over his shoulder, allowing them a moment of uncertainty. None of the skin-clad prodded them in the back or barked at them to march. They waited until the team began moving, then followed in a way that kept them surrounded. The bearded skin-clad took them off the road and through the trees toward the mountain with the cloud-veiled peak.

They slogged through the snow over land that grew more rocky and inclined. Ronon heard McKay mumble something about over damn veils and stupid hills, or something like that. At least he was talking in the face of uncertainty. The skin clad brought them to the sheer rock face of a mountain side, spotted with patches of snow caught in the crannies. They skirted around this rock face to the other side and a hidden path so worn and cracked Ronon wasn't sure it should be called a path. It wound up into the mountain through trenches, then out in the open with a solid wall on one side and open air on the other, forcing the skin-clad to take position behind and in front of the team.

The journey was long, with no stops, and the days were short. They crossed an old, snow-slicked wooden bridge over what McKay kept calling a 'bottom-less ravine.' There was a bottom, but even without the mist hiding it Ronon was certain it was too far down to see. The runner kept his gaze fixed firmly on the frozen wood-slats. Coasting through the atmosphere in a jumper with Sheppard piloting he actually enjoyed. Having thin wooden planks between him and oblivion scared the hell out of him. Any bridge he came across during his time as a runner he crossed at a dash just to avoid the creaking and swaying. This bridge creaked, a lot, and it even cracked, although that was more the accumulated ice underneath giving way to the vibrations.

"You... 'kay?"

Ronon looked down at Sheppard who was staring languidly up at him. Ronon swallowed hard. "Yeah, why?"

"Heart's... pounding..." Sheppard slurred, then drifted back to sleep.

Ronon caught Rodney's pensive, considering look, so shot him a withering one in return. "What?"

Rodney shrugged in pure innocence that was a load of fodder. "Nothing, nothing at all."

Ronon narrowed his eyes. He could already see the gears of thought grinding in McKay's head, planning uses for Ronon's long hidden phobia toward heights against him. The scientist had never let Ronon live down his rather unmanly yelp over the Kri'ta worm Sheppard had said looked like a 'bull snake'. Kri'ta's were deadly poisonous, everyone knew that. Fearing them was conducive to survival.

They stepped off the bridge onto more solid ground, then into another ravine walling them in on both sides. Ronon's muscles eased out of their knots, while McKay's body stiffened from his own muscles starting to coil. Ronon had to admit the ravine was pretty tight, forcing them all to practically huddle together with arms touching arms. But it beat seemingly bottomless chasms and cracking bridges any day.

Night dropped fast but the skin-clads were prepared. Ronon heard the shriek of metal on metal, then squinted against the blinding white flare radiating from small metal and glass lanterns. This was no candle light, and McKay muttered something about phosphorous, magnesium, and other such chemicals. The resulting lights were superior to candles, lighting the path several long meters ahead. The ravine widened and the walls decreased until opening up to a broad path meandering over yet another, even grander chasm up to a collection of buildings gathered like a great nest tucked comfortably within the crags, pinpricked by lighted windows. The path left them open to the elements, winds increasing in strength spitting shards of snow that stung their exposed skin, but at least it wasn't an unstable bridge. Sheppard began shivering violently in Ronon's arms.

"Almost there, Sheppard," Ronon said. The going was slow thanks to the wind that Ronon tried to turn away from to keep off of Sheppard. His arms, legs, and lungs began to burn, and his right foot kept trying to slip out from under him on the loose ice-crystals frosting the path.

Ronon's foot slipped again, this time twisting, and he pitched forward. He moved fast lifting up his elbow to cushion John's head from the blow, but couldn't twist away in time to keep from landing on Sheppard's body. Both he and Sheppard cried out; Ronon when his knees scraped and elbow cracked on the ground, Sheppard when Ronon's heavier body slammed into his lighter one.

"Ronon!" Rodney and Teyla cried out. Ronon shoved the stinging pain in his knees out of his mind and scrambled to his feet, scraping sand and rock. Sheppard had managed to free one arm, trying weakly to push Ronon away then gripping the lapel of his coat. His eyes were squeezed shut and his face was drawn and twisted.

Ronon's heart seized. "Oh no."

Sheppard seethed, gasped, then breathed in shallow pants, chest heaving. "No..." he said breathlessly. "'M'alright. Alright. Good. 'M'good. S'okay..."

Teyla was already slipping her arm through the blanket, her hand bulging under it as it moved over Sheppard's chest. The skin-clads had stopped moving to wait and watch.

"What hurts?" Teyla asked. "Anything?"

"Ch-chest..." Sheppard rasped. "B-back... Not – not bad... Ache..."

Teyla nodded. "Nothing feels broken, but we should hurry."

"We are almost there," said bearded skin-clad. "I could have one of my men carry your friend."

Combination rage and terror boiled up inside of Ronon. "No!" he barked, involuntarily getting his arms to tighten their hold on Sheppard.

The bearded man bowed his head amiably. "As you wish it."

Teyla adjusted the blankets tighter around John before they started off again. It hurt to move, to breathe, the cold wind slicing into Ronon's lungs, but he would sooner loose a limb than hand Sheppard off to a stranger.

The path took them through a grand wooden gate that trundled open on their approach, then closed when they passed. The buildings of wood with slanted, slatted roofs rose up in levels that the path wound back and forth through. They were two-storied structures at least, and four at most, all connected by enclosed bridges that allowed the inhabitants to move from one building to the other without going outside. Yet people were outside. Ronon could see them on porches, verandas, and balconies. Elderly people buried under blankets sitting in rocking chairs of woven sticks, men and women around tables drinking from steaming iron mugs, and children playing with small animals that looked like nothing more than solid balls of fur with bushy tails and tiny snouts. The bearded skin-clad brought them up three levels before finally taking them into the almost stifling but welcome warmth of a building.

"It is beautiful," Teyla breathed in slack-jawed wonder. The hall they were in was wide, with polished wooden walls that ran diagonal, and pillars of wood so finely and intricately carved that Ronon could stare at it all day and still not see every design. The hall opened up into a large room like a communal lodge, with tall pillars and spiral stair-cases on the other side leading up to a walkway with rooms and hallways leading to more rooms. There was a massive fire blazing in a giant hearth of stone. Animals skins and padded chairs of woven branches were scattered everywhere. The majority of the armed skin-clads moved ahead up the stairs except for the bearded man and two others. They let the rest leave before taking the team up to the landing then down the narrow center corridor. The corridor took them into one of the connecting bridges that brought them to a wider hall of even more rooms.

They entered one of the central most doors, into a room with three beds on each side and a fireplace with an already blazing fire across from the door. The bearded man walked to the fire and pointed to the bed on the right side. "Set your friend there."

Ronon wasn't cooperating because the skin-clad had commanded it. He set Sheppard on the bed covered in a quilt and skin, then opened up the blanket for the heat of the fire to reach Sheppard's shivering body. Sheppard had strength enough to roll onto his side, facing the fire, and curl up with his arms tucked tight against his chest. The bearded man stepped aside when Teyla came over to help Ronon rub John's chest and arms warm. Rodney sat at the head of the bed on the side by the fire, removing his coat, then folding his arms tight. He was also shivering, they all were, until the heat of the fire finally began sinking into their bones.

The bearded man watched them for a moment as they helped warm John, his gaze unreadable. When Sheppard's shivering diminished into muscle quakes and the occasional twitch, the man stepped forward.

"My name is Arcas," he said. "First Emek of the Iyanek clan."

"_Emek_?" Rodney asked, rubbing his arms vigorously. "Is that like a chief or leader or whatever?"

Arcas shifted his gaze to stare at Rodney hard, as though looking for something, something that wasn't good. Ronon moved without seeming to a little closer to McKay.

"Leader, yes." Arcas wouldn't take his eyes off of Rodney, and the more he stared, the more it appeared he was seeing that unsavory something. And Rodney hadn't even opened his mouth to stick his foot in it yet. "You are from the city."

Rodney snorted. "City. Yeah, if you wanna call that stupid cesspool a city."

"You wear the robe of one of the magistrate's clerics."

"Not by choice, believe me. It's kind of the only warm clothes I have right now, besides the under shirt and what I guess are boxers, but I am _not_ running around in those."

Arcas' look of displeasure morphed into confusion. Ronon had caught on from the moment Arcas started going unhappy when he looked at Rodney that he harbored as much of a soft spot for the city that Ronon did the wraith

Teyla had caught onto this as well. "We fled the city a few days back after we liberated our friend," she tilted her head toward Rodney, "from the citadel. He was made a cleric against his will. We were all forced into some form of servitude, but we are not from this world. We are explorers who traveled through the ancestral ring. We were on our way to the city of Tarak when we were attacked and taken by their enemies, then sold. I managed to escape and find the others, and now we are only trying to return home."

Arcas' went from confused to thoughtful as he, once again, assessed the four people before him: they're appearance, outward and in. Ronon's fading bruises, cuts and scars from the fighting arena. Teyla's fading bruises on her face, her thinness and eyes that couldn't hold eye contact as they used to. McKay, tense enough to snap. Sheppard, the worst out of all of them, so thin and weak he could barely even stay awake. The truth of Teyla's words were as vivid as moonlight in the dark sky.

Arcas said nothing. He was giving Ronon the sense of someone who wanted to believe, and probably did, but was not ready to express as much. Arcas was a man of reason, obviously, since he had yet to use any form of cruelty. He was also a man of pure caution. Ronon understood in a way that put him at ease around this man and in this place. The team was weakened, weaponless. They could not give Arcas a reason to distrust them even if they tried, and Ronon knew Arcas would eventually come to accept this.

"The Magistrate will sometimes attempt to send spies among us," Arcas said. "Spies disguised as runaway slaves. But, sometimes, we encounter true runaways. Sometimes they are simple to distinguish, sometimes they are not. It does not take long to determine the truth. I am afraid I am going to ask that you remain with us for a few days, until we are certain of you. Then you may be on your way."

Teyla smiled tremulously. "You speak as though this is a bad thing."

Arcas smiled back tiredly. "It depends on your intentions. If your intentions are good, then you are right, it is not a bad thing. I vow that no harm will come to any of you while you are here, and we will help you how we can. The nights come quickly but the day is not over. There is plenty of time before the evening meal for you to wash up. I will send in our healer to aid you."

With that said, Arcas took his leave, shutting the door behind him. McKay looked between Ronon and Teyla, then jerked his thumb over his shoulder. "Think we can trust that guy?"

"Yes," Ronon said without preamble.

"You sure?"

"Positive."

"I believe they are of the Ja'atori people," Teyla said. "Most are nomadic but the clans on this side of the continent are said to take permanent residence in the more unreachable and remote places, such as the mountains and deeper forests. They are said to be a good people, private, with no desire for gain, only to live. They are also said to be the most ancient people of this world, and they know of ways to avoid the wraith."

"What you heard and what is isn't necessarily the same thing," Rodney said. The man liked to think of himself as the voice of reason, but came out sounding more of a paranoid pessimist. Ronon did not fault him that. It was wise to consider all options and sides of an issue. Except Rodney didn't know when to shut up about the negative sides.

"McKay," Ronon growled. "If these people had something bad in mind, it would have happened by now, believe me."

A soft groan from Sheppard effectively ended the conversation and all attention was drawn to him. John lifted his shaking head on his unsteady neck, trying to look around, only to end up dropping it back onto the pillow. "Where're we?" He tried pulling in a deep breath. The breath caught, he gasped, and exhaled on a small, pained whimper. "Looks like a... ski lodge."

"More or less," Rodney said. "Although you can forget any intentions of skiing."

"We are among a people known as the Iyanek tribe," said Teyla. "They brought us here to determine if we are spies from the city."

Sheppard took a more careful breath this time. "Made clear... we're not... Right?"

"I think the leader already knows," Ronon said. "He just wants to make sure."

"In the meantime, we get free room and board," Rodney said. Ronon was surprised to see the scientist smiling about it.

Sheppard sighed, closed his eyes, and nodded. Ronon thought he was about to go back to sleep when his eyes struggled open again. "Everyone 'kay?"

"We're good," Ronon said.

John nodded again. He was about to say more when the door opened and a stooped, heavy-boned lady with iron gray hair and dressed in a knit sweater, brush skirt, and a green-brown shawl over her shoulders shuffled in, thumping a cane on the floor. Several young women, from teens to twenties, followed after carrying baskets probably full of healing herbs and medical supplies. Ronon already guessed the woman to be the healer, making the young women apprentices or assistants.

"Are the baths free, Min?" the old woman asked. Her body might have been bent, and her face so wrinkled it looked like a dried onion, but her voice was strong and capable of some hefty shouts.

A willowy teen tucked a strand of tree-brown hair behind her ear and nodded. "Yes, madame Gelv."

Gelv directed the girls where to set the baskets, then turned to the team and bowed. "I am madame Gelv. Lord Arcas sent me to tend to you lot. So who's first, then?" She didn't wait for an answer when she bustled forward, flapping her hands to shew Teyla away and make room to get to Sheppard. She shuffled to the head of the bed and began by pulling Sheppard's eyelids wider, then his mouth while tilting his head back to look all the way to his throat. She felt along his throat with her gnarled, wood-like hands, and even then Sheppard remained listless and complacent, making Ronon wonder if he was even aware of what was happening.

Then she started removing his shirt. Sheppard's body stiffened. He gasped, pushing his hands into the bed to try and pull away. It was a pathetic effort, one that lasted three heartbeats when Sheppard's strength gave out. So instead of trying to struggle away, he started trembling.

Then begging. "No. Stop..."

Gelv did stop to look down at Sheppard in an admonishing sort of way. "Young man. If I am to help you, I must assess your full condition."

Ronon heard Sheppard's gulp and the whisper of his stubbled face rubbing the blanket when he nodded. Gelv lifted the shirt up to his armpits. When her hand touched his side it was met with a violent recoil of his ribcage that got her snatching her hand as though she'd been bit.

"I barely touched you boy. Don't go telling me that hurt."

John, still shivering, shook his head no.

"Maybe he doesn't like to be touched," McKay said, looking beyond irate to being pissed. Ronon cocked an eyebrow. It made sense considering who he'd been sold too. Teyla had told him about it; how the man had studied John with the same suggestive leer as the women. Then there were the mines and the stories Beornin had told of them. Stories of beatings without provocation, and humans treated as objects. The overseers of the mines, Beornin had said, didn't have a care for gender. Knowing Sheppard, he wouldn't stand for it. He'd break their fingers and gladly take a bullet for it rather than let them touch him in _that_ way. But they would have tried, and he would have been severely punished for it afterwards. Of course he'd end up hating to be touched, just as Teyla now had an aversion toward touch; except when it was Rodney catching her arm when she fell, and Ronon carrying John and holding him up to eat.

The touch of a stranger was another matter.

Gelv didn't take Rodney's words as an insult but into consideration. She placed one dried hand gently on John's head and slowly caressed, speaking softly, her features melting into something Ronon could only describe as maternal.

"Shhh, it is all right," Gelv breathed. "I am not going to hurt you. I wish only to help you."

The cooing wasn't helping, Sheppard was still shivering. Gelv shuffled back to make room and waved Teyla in. "Speak to him, love. Keep him calm."

Teyla squeezed her way in to kneel at the head of the bed. She took John's hand in her own, caressing his head with the other, and whispering to him. The next time Gelv touched John's side, his reaction was more of a twitch than a flinch. She fingered his ribs, then with Teyla's help turned him onto his other side for the same. She had him placed his back so she could press her ear to his chest and listen to his heart, then positioned on his stomach for a listen to his lungs through the back.

There were bruises on John's back that were fresh, a misshapen one in the middle of his back, and one across the shoulders where Ronon's arm had been. Ronon looked away.

"Well," Gelv said, lifting her head. "There's a bit of a rattle to his lungs but nothing a warm bath and some unctan tea can't fix. I'll need help getting him to the baths. Let him have a bit of a soak as I check the rest of you. Someone'll need to watch him. He's not got the strength to be by himself."

"I'll do it," Ronon said.

Gelv nodded. "Good. You can keep him upright. And bring him. I will return to attend the rest of you soon."

Ronon gathered John and followed Gelv from the room into the hall. They did not go far, just through three hallways, then across one of the enclosed bridges to the smallest of the buildings that was only one story. It was not so much a building as an enclosure surrounding natural hot springs divided by walls into individual baths. Gelv had brought them to the largest. She went to a closet and pulled out plain cloths for washing and drying, setting them by the spring's edge.

"A guard will be stationed outside the door. Tell him when you are finished and he will bring you back." Gelv then left.

Ronon curled his lip in sudden trepidation. He had no problem sharing the spring with Sheppard. It was large enough to allow for some personal space. Undressing his team leader he had problems with, because he knew Sheppard would have a problem with it. Sheppard had yet to have an issue with his team man-handling him because they were his team, he trusted them. But being undressed, even by a team member, was still going to be pushing it.

Too bad there wasn't much choice in the matter.

Ronon set John down beside the spring, and the moment he did, Sheppard started pushing himself upright. He managed to get to his elbow, paused to catch his breath, then slid his arm into the sleeve of his shirt and pushed his shirt off over his head, letting it slide down the other arm. He paused again, panting.

" Do I have to lose the pants?" he rasped.

"Kind of defeats the point of a bath otherwise," Ronon replied.

John nodded, then looked up at Ronon imploringly. "Could... You turn around?"

Ronon furrowed his brow. John looked away down into the water, then at the far wall. "Humor me... Please?"

Ronon did. He turned back around when he heard a splash. John's lower half was in the water while his upper body and arms were clinging to the rim of the spring. He remained that way until Ronon stripped and slipped in to take Sheppard under the armpits and move him to a shallow spot so he could sit, the water coming up to below his collarbones. Ronon grabbed a folded cloth to place against the rim for John to lean his bony back against.

"Thanks, big guy," John sighed wearily. "Just... Give me a moment. I can wash myself."

Ronon nodded. He grabbed his own cloth to start washing, staying close but also giving John a little space.

Ronon scrubbed hard over the scabs, and more carefully over the bruises of his own body. Lacerations from whips, swords, knives, and burn marks from blasters. The fighting arena was a joke as well as the biggest means of entertainment for the populace. The weapons were whatever was tossed into the ring by the taskmasters and spectators. Ronon's fifth opponent he'd defeated by stabbing him with a spoon, by which the audience had been uproariously amused.

Ronon wasn't proud of it. Amused himself in a distant sort of way, yes. The rest of the kills were matters of survival that he wouldn't dwell on. Except he did, sometimes. It was a joke of survival. Death, killing – if it had to be done, Ronon preferred if it was during a war, or if it was a wraith. If it had to be human, let them be no better than the wraith. He'd never thought he'd ever become picky over how, when, and who he killed. He'd tried not to kill this one guy, a kid barely out of his teens. He'd broken the kid's legs then refused to go any farther than that. In the end, he was beat for it, and the kid was tossed with the rest of the bodies... alive.

It took three days for the kid to stop screaming, and boy had Ronon learned his lesson. Death was a necessity, and a quick death was a privilege.

What was funny in a very non-amusing way was that death never bothered Ronon, but he did get sick of it after a while. Killing in self-defense, even killing a wraith, it became like the time he'd worked at the meat packing plant that processed locora meat: curing it, turning it into something the equivalent of the earth food sausage. Two years he worked at that plant to help earn a little more income to aid his family. That long being subjected to the stench of blood and boiled locora meat, and the mere smell of it, even when fried, would turn his stomach until he vomited.

He killed when he had to, without feeling, without remorse, never looking back on it. Then came the days when the next blast and explosion of blood and tissues turned his stomach. That was the extent, a knotted gut. At least it let him know he wasn't entirely numb.

When he had handed over his blaster to Teyla so he could take Sheppard, a part of him had been relieved. Given time, it would fade, especially should the lives of his friends be at stake. It was that easy a transition, so he went with it.

Ronon heard the soft lap of water and looked up to see Sheppard shifting to grab a cloth. His motions were methodical, laconic, as though the air around him was water. He started at his shoulders with a vacant look in his eyes that made the motions mechanical. Ronon took his first real look at Sheppard since they found him in the ravine; part to assess his condition, and part out of morbid fascination and horror. It was not that he had never witnessed the body of the starved – he'd traveled too many places to be naïve to anything. Witnessing starvation in someone he knew, someone who was both a friend and a leader, made it personal, and therefore terrible; like when he was no longer numb to death.

Sheppard's skin looked fragile as old parchment and colorless as bleached bones. The actual bones were ragged and sharp. Ronon could recall their feel digging into his arm, even through the blanket, and they had felt as sharp as they looked. It didn't seem possible that John could move, that any muscle could still exist.

Sheppard scrubbed his chest and sank further into the water until it was up to his neck, either because he was tired, or was distantly aware that Ronon was staring at him. If it was the latter, then a part of John must not have cared or he would have been scowling at Ronon by now.

"They never did anything, you know."

Ronon froze in scrubbing his other arm. He hadn't been expecting John to say anything. Mostly he'd been expecting John to fall back asleep and start sliding into the water. So he didn't reply since he didn't know what to say.

Sheppard's eyes opened a little wider and rolled in Ronon's direction. The ferocity Ronon saw both stunned and amazed him. Defiance that potent shouldn't have been possible for someone so frail.

"I made sure of it." Sheppard looked away. "Didn't mean they didn't try. Sure as hell did. Got me naked..." his voice caught and he dropped his gaze to the water. His throat undulated in a constricted swallow. "But that guy – Morket or whatever his name was – didn't like the fact that I bite, and that guy was a freakin' sadist. Guess tetanus is a universal fear, or he actually believed it when I promised I'd rip out his throat." The water rippled when John's arm moved back and forth, scrubbing his chest. "Those overseer guys at the mine give up when you kick at them enough. You just have to..." bony shoulders poked out of the water in a shrug, "get in touch with your inner, pissed, cornered, rabid wild cat." He chuckled, tiredly, and a touch unstable. His eyes went glassy and inward. The hand holding the cloth rose out of the water, clutching the cloth as though it were a neck he were squeezing the life out of. He stared at the cloth, suddenly fascinated by it and the bone-whiteness of his knuckles. It was almost innocent, childlike, the consideration he was giving that already lifeless piece of cloth. For the first time ever, Ronon had to suppress a shudder.

Ronon didn't like that and wanted it to end. He reached out toward Sheppard, his fingers brushing over the protruding knot on pilot's shoulder. Sheppard jumped, cringing away, wary and feral, until he realized it was Ronon and his gaze cleared.

"You okay?" Ronon asked. _Why are you telling me all this?_ stayed put in his mind.

John nodded, confused and abashed, his cheeks turning slightly pink as he recalled his surroundings. "Yeah," he said. Then looked at Ronon, imploringly. "Just... If it's ever brought up, or asked – 'cause I know it won't be asked, not to me, not directly – could you... Could you say something? Just... Say I wasn't... That nothing happened?"

The ferocity, the vacancy, the madness was gone, and so was Sheppard's gaze cast back to the reflections rippling in the water.

Ronon let the silence settle around them for a moment before he finally resumed cleaning. "Yeah, I'll say something."

More silence, then Ronon decided to say something that needed to be said. "Nothing happened to Teyla either."

John looked up, smiling a smile of relief that was draining.

Ronon finished washing faster than Sheppard. While John finished up, Ronon climbed out, dried off, dressed and waited. When John no longer had the energy to keep cleaning, Ronon grabbed a towel and helped Sheppard out in a way that kept him covered. Ronon wasn't going to question, or even speculate, on Sheppard's new-found self-conscious streak. He did get pissed about it. Sheppard was defiant, stubborn, didn't scream when a wraith had fed on him, and only revealed fear when it was someone else in danger. So it would have had to have taken something malign and something constant – something too great to comprehend – to have Sheppard shaking over some harmless old woman checking his injuries.

Teyla would know what that something was, but Ronon had no mind to question her either.

Ronon kept his face turned away as he held Sheppard upright so he could dress on his own. He went the route of slinging Sheppard's arm across his shoulders and gripping him around the waist rather than carry him. Sheppard needed to start rebuilding his strength. The guard on the other side of the door led them back to the room. The moment they stepped into the connecting bridge out of the muggy heat of the hot springs, Sheppard began shivering. Next he began sweating, then his legs gave out until Ronon had no choice but to carry him. When they got back to the room, Teyla was sitting on the edge of the bed letting Gelv show her the many healing herbs, McKay was pacing before the fire, and the apprentices were listening intently to what Gelv had to say.

Gelv dropped the lecture and indicated with a wave and a point for Ronon to lay Sheppard in the bed by the fire. The blankets were turned down, ready to cover Sheppard. Before that, Gelve had Teyla lift John's shirt and speak to him while poultices were applied and his ribs were bound. After that, he was lowered onto his back and covered up to his neck.

"Arcas wishes for you to join him for the evening meal," Gelv said. "Until then, let your friend rest. And you two," she straightened and pointed from Teyla to Rodney. "It is time for you to get cleaned up. You, Master McKay, will be given different clothes to wear. The robes of the citadel clerics are not welcome here."

Rodney stared at her for a moment, unreadable, and Ronon believed he was going to launch into a high-pitched protests.

"I could hug you," he said instead. "Yes, please, new clothes. And burn this robe. Actually, let me burn it. I never did get to punch a single one of those bastards in the face. The least I can do is laugh merrily as their precious robe burns to ash. did you know they cut your meals if you so much as get a smudge on them?"

Gelv chuckled, and Teyla smiled as she took Rodney's arm to lead him from the room.

"Separate rooms for those two!" Gelv called to the guard.

"I'll get Anya to assist!" The guard replied.

"Good, because if I hear you've been peeping, I'll tan your hide into leather!" Gelv called back. She shook her head, chuckling softly as she shuffled over to Ronon. "Lerif's a good lad. He won't be doing any peeking on the lady. Is she the mate of one of you?"

Ronon shook his head. "Just a friend."

Gelv had Ronon sit on the bed, then did him the honors of removing his coat and shirt. She paused to look over the cuts, scars and bruises marking up Ronon's body, and her expression became devoid. "Fighting arena," she said; stating, not questioning.

Ronon was caught up in the turmoil of feeling ashamed, defensive, and a little uncertain. He was ready to argue over survival and doing what he needed to do to maintain it. He also wanted to argue that death had never been an issue for him. Gelv said nothing to warrant either arguments, just began cleaning. Yet Ronon still felt something needed to be said, just to break the silence.

"There was no honor in it."

"Yes," Gelv said.

Ronon swallowed. That hadn't been enough. "There was no reason for it."

The poking and prodding at his back ceased. A warm, dry hand gripped his shoulder, squeezed, then returned to poking and prodding.

----------------------------

John was quietly but firmly insistent that he make it to the dining hall on his own two feet for however long he lasted. It was an insistence pushed without his usual sulky resolve and wounded pride, because he was begging. He promised he could make it, and then said _please_ in a subdued tone that was emotionless yet cracked. Sheppard's dignity had been painfully stripped and he was getting it back one piece at a time. Ronon understood that, so relented after the first please, though McKay had argued weakly against it.

The going was slow to allow Sheppard to keep up. He shuffled down the hall leaning heavily against Ronon, wrapped in a blanket. Ronon kept one arm around Sheppard's shoulders and a hand on his arm. He was planning in advance to have Teyla support John down the stairs, since they'd be able to walk side by side, when John's legs gave out and Ronon was back to cradling the man in his arms. A glance at Sheppard revealed the pilot's frustration. Frustration was good. Frustration meant Sheppard wasn't as resigned to his fate as Ronon was beginning to suspect. Acquiescing without complaint meant Sheppard wasn't going to push things. The man was stubborn, but he was far from stupid.

The dining hall was the same room they first went through on entering the 'ski lodge.' The skins and chairs had been moved for light, low-set tables to be placed across the floor. There were no chairs, just pillow mounds. Arcas was seated near the fire and rose when the team entered to wave them over.

"The place closest to the hearth is for those who suffered the cold the longest," Arcas said. "And visitors." Then he added with a grin, "I believe you qualify as both."

Teyla bowed her head. "Thank you, Arcas."

Ronon took the seat by the fire so Sheppard could lean against him, without the worry of John pitching in the wrong direction. Arcas remained standing even when the team was seated. All present at the tables bowed their heads and closed their eyes. The team copied, Teyla nudging Rodney and hissing at him to follow out of respect. Rodney rolled his eyes before finally closing them. Arcas then launched into a prayer spoken in a lilting, flowing tongue that Ronon found himself thinking would be lovely to hear to music. Seven years as a runner hadn't stripped him of an appreciation for aesthetics and art. It had enhanced it, to the point that he'd nearly been captured when he'd paused to look in wonder at the collection of prismatic bows arching over a silver-foamed waterfall.

The language Arcas spoke could have easily translated into a poem. Then it was over, abruptly it seemed. Ronon snapped his eyes open, tense, until he saw Arcas easing himself into the nest of pillows. Plates, bowls, cups, and eating utensils stacked at the far end of the table were passed down. Then iron pots and clay bowls of food handed around for everyone to spoon a helping. A woman of fifty years leaned in next to Teyla, handing her a mug of something steaming.

"Madame Gelv said that the dark-haired one is to drink this. She could not be present as she is dining with her family."

Teyla took the mug with a docile thank you. She roused John who'd been dosing and brought to cup to his lips, telling him to say something if the broth was too hot. Sheppard took a few careful sips. Teyla set the mug down when the food came to them. There were stews, roasted meat, and a plethora of vegetables. There was water, along with various juices and a drink that was both warm and spicy. Teyla would eat a little, help John drink, then eat more, back and forth. McKay was hunkered protectively over his plate, shoveling food at a rate that should have had him choking by now. Ronon tore off bits of meat and tossed them into his mouth. No one had dared take food from him in the arena. Neither had it been a luxury for him. He'd been too prized a fighter to force into submission through starvation but it hadn't kept him full.

Arcas said little to them. He asked them how they were enjoying the food, introduced them to his wife, two sons, and daughter, then talked a little on the last people they had helped who had worked in the government fields. All polite conversation to mask the fact that he was observing each team member with a practiced eye. This man knew what to look for that would tell him if this little band he had taken in should be trusted, or disposed of.

Ronon had expected Arcas' sights to linger on McKay. Apparently, McKay's pushing for himself to be the one to burn the citadel robe had put Arcas' mind at ease. McKay had been rather manically gleeful about tossing that robe into the fire.

Arcas' gaze lingered longer on Ronon, occasionally shifting to Rodney, then darting to Teyla and Sheppard when Teyla brought the cup to Sheppard's lips.

When a person finished their meal they simply stood, stacked their dishes at the end of the table, and left. Teyla and John finished first, and Rodney second only because he needed to help Teyla get Sheppard back to their room. Ronon didn't linger for much longer, so finished in time to catch up and carry Sheppard when his legs gave out only a few feet from the room. Ronon took that as progress. Teyla moved ahead to pull down the blankets. Ronon set Sheppard in the bed and Teyla tucked him in. Rodney collapsed into the bed across from John's.

"Oh this is sweet," he groaned. "I will never complain about a lumpy mattress again. My spine is already singing its praises."

"Had you no bed at the citadel?" Teyla asked in mild curiosity as she slipped beneath the covers of the bed next to John.

Rodney propped himself up on his elbows and scowled. "We had cots, a sheet, and this flat piece of cloth they called a pillow." Rodney dropped back, pulling the blankets up to his chin and squirming in deeper. "Better than nothing, I suppose, but that place got damn cold and those cots were damn hard."

Ronon just sat on his bed across from Teyla's, waiting until the others drifted off to sleep, then watching the rise and fall of their chests, and listening to the vibrating snores from McKay. He then rose, flung on his coat, and headed out letting a sharpened memory guide him through the halls to where he'd seen a door leading out onto a balcony. Crisp winter air bumped against him like the head of an overly affectionate pet. Ronon breathed deep for that air to cut into his lungs. Old snow crunched under his boots as he stepped out to lean up against the carved wooden balustrade.

The sky was clear and interrupted only by the surrounding peaks. Time was irrelevant, like the cold. Ronon didn't care how long he'd been outside when Arcas showed up. Ronon had been expecting his arrival. The man had things to say, but dinner had not been the time or he would have said them them. Arcas stood just outside the threshold, wearing a heavy skin cloak and a coat. He had his hands in the pocket of the coat, his stance relaxed, even a little weary.

"Gelv tells me you were a pit fighter," he said.

Ronon snorted. "Gelv talks to much."

"I was not making an accusation. We've had pit fighters come. They tend to be ill at ease, protective of the self. We've had to be careful of them."

Ronon turned his head enough to see the man. "This your not so subtle way of explaining why they'll be a guard outside our door?"

Arcas shook his head and stepped out closer toward the balustrade. "No guard. No need. A man who willingly and gladly carries the body of another man is not one who's out to maintain the self. The life that you and your friends have endured has made you more open than you realize. Those sent to spy on us try too hard when they play pretend. Their fear is too... rehearsed, too... artificial. It does not matter how well they train, their emotions are so manipulated that there is nothing about them that is real. You and your friends are too exhausted to play pretend."

Ronon shrugged. "A good night's rest, we'll be up to doing anything."

Arcas grinned. "This exhaustion has nothing to do with the body."

"There something you want?" Ronon said, and didn't care if it sounded less than hospitable. He was tired of games.

"No," Arcas said. "I just came to tell you that you and your friends are welcome to stay for as long as you need to heal. You said you had your own world to go back to, so I do not have to tell you that you cannot live among us. It is not our way."

Ronon didn't need an explanation. Every person had their own world, their own ways. Sometimes it was easy to integrate, or at least come to tolerate. Other times it was impossible. The rest of the time, it was just down right rude, because there was always that desire to change all the little things you didn't like about that culture.

"I get the feeling that you will not be here for long," said Arcas.

Ronon grinned. It wasn't a threat, just the obvious. The gate was only days away and on the other side was a home that they needed to get back to. They would wait for as long as it took for Sheppard to regain enough strength to walk. They would easily wait longer, but Sheppard wouldn't let them. He would insist that they go on without him, to send back help, and it was an unspoken agreement among them that they would never do this. Giving Sheppard time to regain strength was a compromise. Ronon had no qualms about carrying him, but he wasn't going to deny the man even a minuscule of pride. Then there was Teyla and Rodney, who could do with the rest themselves.

"We've been gone too long," Ronon said. _They've_ been gone too long; the three people asleep in the guest room. Ronon was closer to content since somewhere down the line, those three people had become home; a home he could take with him and a home he could save. Four walls and a roof eventually crumbled, but people made an impression that lived beyond the body into memory. Ronon preferred it that way, even if it was more painful. He'd been homesick to an almost literal point until Teyla had found him. The homesickness he felt now was more an urgency to get the three people back to the safety of Atlantis before they were lost again.

Arcas gave Ronon a brief clasp on the shoulder that got Ronon to turn his head and regard the man. But Arcas left the balcony. Ronon had his own feeling; Arcas understood what it meant to be homesick. The scar over his eye said as much.

-----------------------------------

TBC...

A/N: Sorry for the lack of excitement. Think of this as a calm before the storm chapter, giving them a chance to heal a little more, Sheppard especially because I am not having him down for the count the entire time. The next chapter I'm planning will have a lot more something to it.


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: Glad to see everyone enjoying this so far. Now for a bit more excitement.

Ch. 3

Rodney looked forward to the day when he could be reacquainted with the art of lounging around. The free room and board wasn't quite so free. Arcas and his mountain Eskimo tribe expected the strangers to pull a little weight. Not that he had to ask Ronon and Teyla: they helped out of the goodness of their hearts, either lugging heavy stuff or bustling around the kitchens. Rodney was a special case since he could neither cook nor lug heavy objects around for long periods. One would think him clear of all _guestly_ duties, but Ronon felt like opening his big mouth concerning Rodney's 'big brain'. It turned out the Iyanek avoided the wraith by piling into a cave where their life-signs were hidden by a generator. Nothing overly fancy or anything to drool over – it's range barely encompassed the villagers no matter how they packed in. But it was intriguing enough for Rodney to grudgingly succumb to the request of giving it an overhaul rather than a tune-up, which the device was in dire need of.

Sheppard was exempt due to matters of health. The man could barely stand without wobbling. Yet he did contribute, if one would call scaring the little kiddies witless with stories of knife-wielding and mask wearing lunatics contributing. Although Sheppard had become rather clever about it. Rather than returning from the grave, the machete wielding psycho was sent by the city: "Which is why you must avoid going there at all costs." The adults were a lot more pleased by these newer versions than the originals.

Thanks to Sheppard's trait of being relentless and stubborn, he was gaining strength enough to move about on his own at a fast rate. He graduated from having to be upheld and fed to sitting up on his own and holding the cup of broth himself. Broth soon climbed to soup full of softened vegetables and bits of meat, or a porridge that was kind of like oatmeal but tasted like pecan pie according to John. Rodney kept wanting to sneak a bite but it felt low-down and dirty, like stealing food from a starving man, because it was stealing food from a starving man.

Days turned into a week that spilled over into a new week and John went from sitting up to standing up, then moving around on his own. It was usually about when he could walk again that boredom gnawed at him until he would gladly hold a plate of chopped vegetables just to have something to do, to at least _feel_ like he was doing something, pulling his weight. Rodney called it delirious desperation, because the pilot was out of his mind for not taking advantage of the chance to lounge.

The decision to leave came about two days away from the end of the second week. Ronon was the one who brought it up after dinner, just before bed, a casual mention as though it were no big deal.

"So when do you think it best to head out?" he asked no one in particular as he pulled down the skins and blankets.

John, sitting up in his bed against his pillow, shrugged his thin shoulders. His joints were sharp like they could shred his shirt. "Whenever. I always say the sooner the better.

"We should at least wait one more day," Teyla said, "so we can prepare."

There were murmurs of agreement. Rodney kept his mouth shut, mostly because he was too busy grinding his teeth to say anything. When Ronon headed out, to use the privy or whatever, Rodney flung back his blankets and followed. He caught up with Ronon two doors down, grabbing his arm and pulling him around.

"What the hell, Ronon?" he hissed, keeping his voice at a level that he hoped the others couldn't hear. "Are you freakin' crazy? We can't leave now. Look, just because Sheppard can move around without being carried doesn't mean he's better. No offense to him, but he won't last a quarter of the way through the day in his condition."

Ronon shrugged casually. "Then I'll carry him."

"Oh, yes, he'll be thrilled about that."

"He'll let me, McKay. He puts his people before his life, pride included. He won't do anything that would slow us down."

Rodney clenched his jaw. He would have argued against Ronon's point if Sheppard hadn't already proved it true. Not once since this journey started had John made a peep about being carried, and him being out of it during that time had had nothing to do with it. If the man had things to say then he'd mumble them in his sleep if he had to.

McKay just hoped to high heaven it had nothing to do with John being beaten into permanent submission.. Sometimes conscious assent and subconscious subservience could be hard to tell apart.

"This is a bad idea," Rodney finally gritted out. He steeled himself for a backlash or at least a smoldering glare. He stood tall though his muscles tried to bow him in a cringe. When Ronon reached out, the resulting flinch was involuntary. But instead of snatching his hand back, the runner slowed its approach to Rodney's shoulder.

"We don't have a choice, McKay."

Rodney glowered. "Of course we have a choice, we always have a choice, and this isn't exactly a rocket-science decision. Stay and let Sheppard heal or go and watch him, and maybe even Teyla afterwards, collapse."

"Which is why we need to go now. I've been thinking this out for a while, McKay, even talking to Arcas and Gelv about it. These people can heal cuts, bruises, broken bones, and starvation but bigger sicknesses they aren't equipped to handle. Think about it McKay. You of all people should get it. That city wasn't sanitary and Teyla walked barefoot through those streets to find me. Half the weapons I was cut with still had blood on them. Sheppard was tossed on a pile of dead bodies. And I get the feeling from what I heard that the citadel only _looks_ clean."

Rodney swallowed tightly. Ronon had so much of a point it actually made him queasy. That stupid sleeping chamber for the acolytes had always wreaked of urine, and there had been stains on the blankets and pallets Rodney had tried real hard not to think about. It all came down to germs, which meant illness, and they were way more susceptible to it than they were supposed to be, Teyla and John especially. If someone was going to get sick then this penicillin-ignorant world wasn't the place to be.

"Well," Rodney stammered, "no one's sick yet..."

Ronon released Rodney's shoulder. "We don't know what'll happen tomorrow, or the next day. We need to get off this world, the sooner the better. We've been here too long as it is." He then walked away, ending any further argument.

If Rodney didn't know any better, he could have sworn the Satedan wanted to cross the Stargate more than the rest of them.

----------------------------

Departure came the day after, as Teyla had suggested.

The Iyanek weren't cheap about supplying the little party with satchels fat with preserved foods and skin-flasks of water. Sheppard now had a coat and a pair of thick, leather boots to go with his blanket. Gelv provided Teyla with healing herbs, cloth bandages, and directions on how to use everything. After the days spent among these people, friendships had formed and the majority of the village gathered to see their guests off. Arcas and several of his men, layered in skins, led them down a path on the other side of the village, winding back and forth into the valley.

Rodney startled at the change in temperature. The upper mountains were arctic but the valley, though probably in the forties at most, felt like it was smoldering in the upper fifties. There were only a few slushy patches of snow huddled at the base of trees or clinging to dips in the ground. But where there was slush, there was also mud. The dead moss on the ground was like a squishy carpet that kept their boots clean, but the road looked like a pig's wallow.

"It would be best to keep to the side of the road," Arcas said. Then added with a slight smirk, "But not because of the mud." The smirk quickly vanished. "The weather fluctuates during this time of year, but the warmth is only a few days old and will last a few days more. People take this opportunity to travel, so you do best to remain hidden among the trees, keeping the road in sight rather than walking it."

Ronon and Arcas clasped hands. "Thank you, Arcas."

"We wish there were a way to repay you," said Teyla, her gaze to the ground. Rodney didn't like her docility. It didn't suit her and made him feel as though she had reverted to a small child (in terms of personality, not intelligence). It seemed down right amazing she even talked to anyone beyond the team.

John didn't say anything. The days of thinking the old Sheppard was back were long gone. The man was acting spooked, all tense and continually scanning the forest, reacting to the smallest sound. It was like a bad joke that the two most capable leaders of the group had been shoved to the back, forcing the anti-social loners to take the lead.

"We do not do this for reward," Arcas said, all pleasantly noble and sincere, and yet Rodney still expected a bunch of soldiers to jump out from behind the trees and yell "surprise, slave-scum, you're going back." Rodney hadn't been trusting of any alien culture since secret underground bunkers popped up on what was supposed to be a backwards Amish world. Being a scholarly servant at the citadel was the lemon icing on the cake. Every damn day of being in that place was like suffering a constant stream of hazing reaching bloody proportions. A man couldn't sneeze without getting punched in the face for it.

So Rodney held no qualms about being paranoid.

"Good fortune to you, friends," Arcas said as a farewell, with the parting gift of returning Dex's weapon. Then he and his skin-clad entourage slipped into the forests, back the way they had come.

As much as Rodney didn't want to, he kept questioning the fortune of meeting the Iyanek, searching for the loop-hole or flaw in the entire encounter. The only one he found but couldn't really count for logical reasons was the one Ronon had talked about, that these mountain people never adopted the strays they took in. Such thinking didn't sit well in terms of taking in dogs and cats, but people aren't easy to housebreak, especially ones already broken in to their own way of life.

When the mountain men became lost to sight, Ronon was the one to start moving them out. They sloughed through the moist forest smelling of wood-rot, moss, and mold, huddled around the Stedan who was now the unofficial protector since he no longer had to carry John. Teyla was on one side, Sheppard the other, and Rodney behind both Ronon and John in case the stick-figure man lost the strength to stand up. Water gurgled and pool at their feet, squeezed from the spongy moss that was brown from being covered by snow.

Rodney still kept expecting slavers or soldiers to pop out of nowhere. That's how they'd been caught in the first place, when soldiers from the neighboring country (i.e. the one the team was now trudging through) emerged from around shrubs and trees in an ambush. On the positive side, not a single shot had been fired. On the negative, they were stripped, slapped into shifts that couldn't keep a mouse warm, and sold like cattle on the auction block.

McKay had never been so glad that he wasn't exactly a 'looker'. His brains, however, he'd cursed and kept cursing when that obsessive freak Joral had bought him. The man hadn't been so much a task master as a dominatrix... okay, a rather bad analogy. Just plain domineering. Being able to read Ancient and Ancient-esque type languages had made McKay useful but not exactly valuable, and Joral seemed to have gotten a kick out of kicking Rodney whenever he could. He wasn't a sadist. Rodney was pretty sure the man had either been literally schizophrenic or borderline autistic. Joral had had so many rules. _Soooo _many... Rodney still got headaches just thinking back and trying to remember them all. If so much as a single ribbon book-mark was wrinkled, Joral would jump into fits that made three years olds seem calm.

Except three year olds didn't have access to whips and chemicals that burned the skin without leaving a mark. Joral didn't like imperfection.

Rodney scowled. He wasn't supposed to be thinking about that bastard. He'd promised himself that he would completely forget having met the man and regard the experience as a bad dream. But denial wasn't playing fair.

When twilight came early to the woods, Ronon passed the gun over to Teyla and set out in search of a cave. What he found, instead, was a tree hollow big enough for the four of them to pack into. There was no dry wood for a fire, so they huddled close within the wooden cave, their blankets and coats layered across their backs like a single covering as they ate dried bread, fruit, and cheese. When they were finished, they formed another human nest with John and Teyla on the inside and Rodney and Ronon on the outside.

Rodney was actually becoming desensitized to the touching proximity as of late. But not to the sensation of Sheppard's bones digging into his arms. He had his fisted hands and forearms against John's back between the shoulder blades, could feel the rise and fall of the Lt. colonel's breathing and the occasional shudder on the exhales. McKay could only sigh in defeat and endure what felt like touching a skeleton. He drifted off into dreams of running down corridors of marble-tiled floors and pillars of pale brown, stretching up to dome ceilings like a gaudy cathedral. Sound was amplified, Joral's nasal voice everywhere as McKay ran from him like a rat in a maze.

Rodney woke to whimpering that he realized wasn't his own. It was too dark to see, but not like Rodney needed to see. He could feel Sheppard shaking, squirming, probably gearing up to make another break for it. Since McKay didn't hear any cooing words of comfort, it was safe to assume he was the only one aware of what was going on. Which meant it was up to him to keep it from happening.

Rodney twisted his lips in consternation. Providing support through his mere presence he could do. Anything beyond that felt like crossing unsavory lines. Still, it was either that or suffer being potentially kicked in the ribs when Sheppard finally freaked. Rodney reached out twitchily, placing his hand against John's bony back to begin rubbing in misshapen circles. He grimaced every time his hand ran across the knobby column of Sheppard's protruding backbone. But after a moment, probably no more than a minute, Sheppard settled down and fell silent. Rodney would have been a little worried about the man's perfect stillness if it hadn't been for the rise and fall of his flanks.

Rodney went back to sleep, slipping into dreams of running from Joral's voice shouting too loud to make any sense. He awoke to someone shaking him roughly by the shoulder.

"I'm up!" McKay yelped, struggling to sit up while pushing away from the hand gripping his shoulder. That hand gripped tight, holding him in place, and Rodney went still, his heart jackhammering like a rabbit's.

"McKay?"

Rodney looked up into Sheppard's sunken, pale, confused face. If it hadn't been for the man's hair he would have been the spitting image of a Holocaust survivor. Actually, the hair didn't make a lick of difference. It was hard to look at John, sometimes.

Sheppard squeezed Rodney's shoulder. "You okay, buddy? You were breathing kind of fast. Looked like you were going to be sick."

Rodney looked at John incomprehensibly, then outside at the cold, gray early morning. He shook his head, shaking out the dream adhering to his mind like cobwebs. "No, uh... I mean, yes, I'm fine. Bad dreams."

John nodded, worried and understanding. "All right. Come on. We need to eat so we can head out."

Breakfast was more bread and cheese, then another day of trudging over soaked moss and mud. When they stopped for lunch, McKay thought his feet were going to fall off. He limped for the rest of the day, but they didn't stop until a little before twilight when Sheppard started to stumble and wheeze. He'd managed longer the other day. Rodney suspected constant exposure to the elements to be the culprit. The man was shivering even with the blanket and coat.

Ronon didn't find any caves or tree-hollows, just a dry patch of earth and a little kindling for a small fire. Their sleeping configuration was the same: John and Teyla inside, and Ronon and Rodney outside. This time it was Teyla against John's back, with Sheppard facing Ronon's back and Rodney Teyla's. She had one hand pressed to John's spine and the other resting casually on his ribs.

There was nothing casual about it. McKay had seen her do that every night since they'd found Sheppard. She always kept at least one hand on John while leaning back against whoever was behind her. Tonight, it was Rodney's turn to be poked in the chest by her shoulder blades. She felt sparse against him, delicate, like something that could be picked up and carried away in the slightest breeze. He kept his arms folded to avoid touching her with his hands since he knew she wouldn't like that.

McKay awoke during the night to a slight chill against his chest. Teyla had moved away from him to huddle tight, her hands no longer on John but pressed tight against her own chest as though trying to avoid touching anyone. Rodney had the feeling that was exactly what she was doing. He fell back to sleep.

----------------------------

"Wake up, then!"

Rodney gasped and yelped when he was hauled to his feet by the shoulder of his coat to be shoved forward into Ronon's thicker bulk. The Satedan reached back to steady Rodney with one hand, the other holding John's arm to keep him upright. Teyla was thrust at them from the other direction for Rodney to catch and keep standing.

"What the hell!" he squeaked, which earned him a slap to the back of the head.

"Shut up!"

Rodney cringed and snapped his jaw shut. His attacker stepped out from behind, swaggering, dressed in dark leathers and a tattered red shirt tucked into tight leather pants. Glancing around revelaed the rest of their captors dressed like medieval bikers in long-coats or jackets. Ten men in all armed with guns, bolas, whips, and various wicked looking daggers and swords either in hand or sheaths surrounded the team. They were all leering, all smug, and all smelling incredibly unwashed.

The gang stepped back to allow a single man in a black leather long-coat to circle the little group, looking them over. The man was John's height but as lean as Ronon, with a head of prickly brown hair, a perpetual five o'clock shadow, and a self-satisfied look that didn't quite fit well in the manic gray eyes.

"Four," the man said. "We got ourselves quite a haul, boys."

The men nodded and murmured in agreement, reminding Rodney, for some reason, of a bunch of trained monkeys.

The man moved in closer to Teyla and reached out with a gloved hand to run his fingers through her hair. "I especially like this one."

Rodney pulled Teyla back and Ronon grabbed the man's wrist, thrusting it away. The entourage lifted their various weapons and inched in closer. Psycho stepped back, wiping his mouth then pointing at the Satedan. "Don't really like him."

"Want us to be rid of him?" someone shouted.

Rodney was pretty sure he, Teyla, and John weren't really thinking about it when they surrounded Ronon to shield him. Psycho wiped his mouth again and glanced around in painfully obvious indecision. "Uh..." The man's thought process looked painful.

"He'd make a good fighter," someone offered helpfully.

Psycho boy smiled. "Yeah, yeah, he would! No, don't get rid of him."

Rodney exchanged a look with John, putting a finger to his head and twirling it. Sheppard nodded in agreement.

Psycho boy just stood their, wallowing in further indecision and shifting like a kid with ADHD.

"Why don't we bring 'em to your da, Ackar? Bet he'll know what to do with 'em."

Ackar nodded and smiled. "Yeah, he will." He stepped up to Ronon, meeting his gaze, smirking like an imbecile, then punched the bigger man right in the jaw. Ronon's head snapped to the side, which made Ackar grin even more stupidly. "Yeah, that oughta teach you then. Right?"

The men murmured and chuckled.

Rodney rolled his eyes, and for the first time in a long while, mumured without thinking. "Yes, that little slap certainly showed him."

Ackar might not have seemed all that at home upstairs, but apparently had excellent hearing when he snapped his head around to glare at Rodney. "What did you say, little man?"

Rodney gaped. "I... uh... nothing."

Ackar either didn't buy it or wasn't listening, probably the latter, when he stalked up to Rodney, shoving Teyla roughly to the ground out of the way to invade McKay's personal space. "What did you say? You said something, little man. What was it?" He then shoved Rodney hard in the shoulders. Rodney stumbled until his heel snagged a root and he fell to his back, the air shoved from his lungs. Sheppard was immediately at his side, helping him sit up, while Ronon handled Teyla.

"He didn't say anything," John growled. He was about to get Rodney back to his feet when Ackar slammed his boot into John's side. Sheppard toppled to the ground with a broken cry of pain. Rodney twisted with the intent to help the pilot only to have that same boot shoved into his chest, pinning him to the ground.

"That's right, little man," Ackar said, wiping irritably at a string of saliva stretching from his lips. He increased his weight on the boot until Rodney couldn't draw another breath. "You didn't say anything. And you won't say anything from now on unless I say otherwise. Got it?"

Rodney clawed at the ground and nodded. "Y-y-y-eeee-ssss."

Ackar grinned, "Good," and lifted his boot away. Rodney gasped in a lung full, rubbing his chest that was going to be bruised and sore later. Rodney and John were pulled roughly to their feet, Rodney clutching his sternum and John his ribs.

"You all right?" John whispered.

"Yeah, you?"

"What did I say!" barked Ackar. Rodney cringed and dropped his gaze, piling on the humility. John's expression shifted when he looked from Ackar to Rodney, going from a scowl to sympathetic. The team huddled in close, Teyla placing her hand on Rodney's back in an act of comfort. They were herded through the forest over ravines and barely existent streams that were more like mud-pits, staining their legs past the knees with brown muck.

"We're moving away from the road," Ronon said. That sparked sudden panic in Rodney, but he knew better than to talk.

"Back to the city?" Teyla said, asking what Rodney had wanted to, and sounding just as frightened. They were all looking expectantly and fearfully up at the Satedan. When the big man shook his head, they relaxed, just a fraction.

The trees became taller, thicker, and closer obscuring much of the way ahead. They eventually broke through to see a high wall of wooden stakes and a massive gate that groaned open when one of Ackar's men started shouting. On the other side were more trees and a muddy path leading to the massive, run down porch of an even more massive and rundown country mansion. The place could have made one hell of a haunted house with its shattered windows and warped and gray wooden walls if there hadn't been so many people crawling all over the place; sticking their heads out the broken windows or leaning precariously over the rail of an upper balcony. Rodney counted about twelve couples making out, hot and heavy, all over the place.

_Please don't let this be some coed brothel, please please please. _

The team was hustled into the immaculate front room with a moldy red carpet leading to a set of open double doors between two broad staircases. The doors led into what Rodney guessed was some kind of ballroom. On the dais or bandstand or whatever it was was a throne draped in different colored silks, a night stand covered by a blue cloth on the right, and several meaty looking men surrounding it. The occupant of the throne was a man in his late-fifties, with prickly iron-gray hair and a weathered face, square jaw and milky blue eyes. He was dressed in a plain white shirt, leather jerkin, black pants, and black buccaneer boots.

He also looked bored out of his skull, his head resting in his upturned hand and his eyes heavy-lidded. When Ackar shoved the team to the foot of the dais, the old man heaved a weary and woe-begone breath.

"Who are they?" he sighed, sounding just as blase as he looked.

"Prisoners, father," Ackar said, practically bouncing off the walls. "I caught them trespassing and brought them to you just like you always ask."

Whoever the old guy was, he had a lot of followers who were now piling into the ballroom for a look at what was going on. Several of the gathered moved to stand on either side of the throne below the dais, two young men and three young women. The young man with the shoulder-length, dirty blond head had women with ample chests in either arm. The boy next to him was shorter, willowy, his dirty-blond hair cut short and as rakish as Sheppard's, and his blue eyes enlarged behind wire-rimmed spectacles.

The shortest of the young women reminded Rodney of a female Robin Hood complete with a bow (well, crossbow) strapped to her back and a fierce look in her green eyes. The other two were complete bimbos: the blond looked about ready to pop out of her dress the way she puffed out her chest. The red-head was simultaneously looking the team over with a predatory eye as she caressed the bald head of a thick-armed lug. Her green eyes were especially keen on Ronon, drinking him in like he was fine wine.

The old man shifted to lean his head on the other hand. "And what do you expect me do to with them?" he asked.

Ackar's smile faltered a little and he shrugged. "Uh... I don't know. Whatever we do with trespassers?"

"We rob them, Ackar. We don't bring them to our home," the old man admonished. He sighed and rubbed both his eyes with one hand. "You really need to stop doing that, son. We barely have enough food as it is. You know we can't let them go, now."

Rodney's heart dropped like a rock into his stomach.

The old man looked up to glare at each of the men gathered behind Ackar. "And none of you brainless lot thought to remind him of this... again? Gaw, why do I even let him have an escort? You're all blasted useless!"

Ackar whipped out his knife. "Want us to be rid of them?"

The old man rolled his eyes. "No, you idiot. We're not murderers. It draws in too much attention from the city."

"Somehow," said the young man with a woman in each arm, "I doubt this bunch'll be missed by the city."

This was starting to look bad, real bad. Rodney's heart stuttered and he felt his hands start to shake. Teyla gripped one, to comfort and Rodney was sure to be comforted as well, as she was looking fairly unsettled.

Then John stepped forward and they all stiffened in sudden dread.

"Um," Sheppard began, his shoulders hunched and back curved in a show of looking inarguably harmless. "Excuse me? Yeah, listen, you don't have to worry about us telling anyone where your hideout is. We're not even from around here and all we want to do is get home. You don't need to keep us around. If you let us go, we'll just be on our merry way and pretend we never met. And trust me when I say we don't like the city any more than you do."

Ackar whipped his knife back out and advanced on John. "You speak when spoken to you scrawny little _niyek_!" He stopped in his tracks when Ronon interposed himself in front of Sheppard.

"Ackar," the old man sighed. "The man has a right to speak." He turned a rather kindly looking gaze on John. "What's your name, young man?"

"John Sheppard. And this is Teyla Emmagen, Ronon Dex, and Rodney McKay. We were just trying to get back to our world when your son found us and brought us here."

The old man smiled caustically. "He's always doing that. My name is Gelfer Orthan, leader of the Freemen, purveyors of the fine art of extortion. We live off the land but mostly off of whatever travelers happen to have on their person. But all transaction is supposed to be dealt with on the road, not within our walls. I apologize for my son's foolishness, but am afraid that you won't be able to go anywhere. Those who pass within these walls, stay within these walls. We can't afford to dole out trust like candy in our business, you understand?"

_Not really_, Rodney wanted to say, but Ackar was hovering a little too close for comfort.

"Given time," Gelfer continued, "should we find that you can indeed be trusted, then perhaps you could leave. But that takes quite a bit of time. During which, you'll need to be earning your keep."

"If not?" Ronon growled.

Gelfer shrugged and looked pointedly at Sheppard. "You starve."

Ackar grabbed Ronon's arm, only to have it jerked away. "This one'll make a good fighter. Don't you think, father?"

Gelfer huffed and looked ready to leap from the dais and slap the young man upside the head. "Ackar, we'll not be making slaves out of these folk. He'll be good at whatever he wishes. They _will_ need to be given a room, maybe the library. Only space we got left."

The boy with the glasses slumped at this.

Gelfer waved indifferently. "Show them the way and give them some food. Not you, Ackar. We need to have a talk."

The team was suddenly surrounded, receiving pats on the back as they were, once again, herded away back out into the foyer. The blond kid, now with only one girl in his arms, stepped around to face the group. "You a fighter, big man?" he said. "Not that you have to, but good coin can be made in the fighting circle."

Ronon's lip curled in disgust and his fists clenched. "No." He spat the word, pouring on enough venom and finality to make everyone around him flinch. The red-head girl appeared out of nowhere, running a slender finger over Ronon's shoulder and across his chest. She shoved Rodney out of the way and gave Teyla a dead-panned glance that was both self-satisfied and spiteful.

"He'd do well as a protector," she simpered.

The blond boy smirked. "You don't need another one, Sya."

"A girl can never have enough, Kelath."

The blond with the squashed bosoms started tugging on John's arm, nearly yanking him off his feet. "I like this one. Get more meat on his bones and he'd be quite handsome," she giggled.

John pulled his arm away in a violent recoil that had him backing into Ronon and glancing frantically around like a cornered animal looking for a way out, ready to bolt when he found it. It shocked Rodney the level of irrational fear he saw in John at that moment, the wild expression that could go either way toward fight or flight. He looked quite ready to fight, actually, until Teyla grabbed his hand and held it, grounding him with physical contact that was both familiar and kind. The blond pouted and made another grab for John's arm, only for the pilot to jerk away. Rodney finally, surreptitiously, placed himself between the grabby-girl and the colonel.

The red-head's eyes rolled. "You've always had terrible taste in men, Jyza."

The girl just pouted more, crossing her arms and stamping her foot.

The little welcoming party was interrupted when lady Robin Hood muscled her way through, squeezing her petite body through the thicker bodies of sweaty, bad-smelling men.

"All right," she bellowed. "Da said to show 'em to the libraries so let's move 'em there already before he finds us loitering."

Everyone complained as well as complied, leading the team up the left-hand staircase. They were taken down a hall with moldy blue carpeting to a room at the end that opened up to a stone chamber the size of the ballroom and wall to wall books. There were three tables and several padded easy chairs scattered haphazardly. Between the bookshelves were faded paintings and torn tapestries too mangled for the pictures to be discernible.

Most of the Freemen left, except for the red-head, Sya, who circled Ronon once more, the blond Jyza who was staring at John with girlish affection, Kelath, his woman, Lady Robin hood, and the boy with the glasses.

"You're not to go beyond the grounds or to the gate," Kelath said. "They'll be guards posted outside the door should you need anything. Always are on day one for the newcomers. Food and bedding'll be brought later." He then turned and left. Lady Robin Hood snapped at the two girls who hurried out, Jyza bouncy and Sya sauntering.

Lady Robin Hood looked at the spectacled kid. "Coming Rial?"

The boy, Rial, folded his arms in a way that screamed insecure and lowered his gaze. "In a minute Giana. I, uh, need to make some things clear to them."

Giana looked from Rial to the team, her gaze hard and oozing promises of hurt should anyone lay a finger on the young man. "All right, then," she said. "You shout if they try anything." She left.

And then there was one. Rial shrugged, looking apologetic. "Giana is very... protective."

_We can see that_, Rodney wanted to snap, but didn't feel safe enough to. Talking had, once again, become like blood in shark infested waters. This scrawny kid could be as vicious as his older brother for all McKay knew, the insecurity a front to hide the boy's true nature. Kind of the same way the skinny, laid-back look worked for Sheppard.

"Just so you know," the kid said, "I may kick you out from time to time. I like to come here. It's the only place a man can get some peace and quiet."

John grinned. "It's not like we're a noisy bunch. But we get it."

Rial smiled slightly and cleared his throat again. "You, uh, slaves then?"

Ronon narrowed his eyes. "What does it matter?"

"Oh, nothing at all. Ackar's always bringing in former slaves. You can always tell the slaves from the spies. Spies aren't usually as nervous as you lot, and no offense to you, Mr. Sheppard, but neither are they that skinny."

"If being skinny proves our innocence," John said, "I'm okay with it."

Rial smiled less sheepishly and more amused. "Well, former slaves is what Ackar usually runs across. Most don't mind joining up with my da's gang. Free food, free shelter, and all you have to do is help in setting up the raids on travelers. Nothing violent, mind you. My da doesn't believe in violence. No point to it and it draws too much attention, he always says. He's a smart one, my da, and a good man. He'll treat you fair." Which sounded all well and good, until the boy began gnawing on his bottom lip nervously. "My brothers and sisters you've gotta watch out for. Not so much Giana, and definitely not Jyza. Kelath," he shrugged, "he likes to observe when there's trouble. Ackar you met. Sya's used to getting what she wants. Smarter than she looks, my sister. If the others want something, they come to her to get it, 'cause she knows how."

"What about the rest of your dad's gang?" Ronon asked.

"They're followers. What ever my brothers and sisters do, they go along with it. Its mostly Ackar, Sya, and Kelath in the lead. I've never been much for inspiring folk. No need to worry though. Taking sides isn't a must, but it does help. If you want to avoid all the side-taking, all you need do is make yourself scarce and uninteresting. You'll find plenty of folk who are only along because they have to be, not because they joined."

"Rial," said John, moving in a little closer. "Is membership in your dad's gang really permanent? There's absolutely no way to convince him to just let us go home?"

Rial shrugged. "Given time. He's let people leave, usually after a couple of years. But he won't be heading the gang for much longer. The day of the vote is coming up. He'll be choosing one of us to take his place. Usually the vote doesn't happen for another few years, but my da's been feeling a bit down and is looking to retire. Once it's decided who'll lead, then it'll be up to them whether folk who want to leave get to leave. Right now the favor's between Ackar and Kelath."

Rodney's heart took a nose dive, Teyla gaped, and John paled to pure white. Ronon just scowled as always. They exchanged looks that said enough: screwed, screwed, screwed, screwed, _screwed!_

John looked back at Rial. "Uh, Rial, think you could tell us a little more about this day of the vote thing?"

Their meals arrived a little after Rial launched into the inner politics of the Freemen, so the kid joined them. The ruler-ship of the guild was supposed to be a monarchy, passed on to the oldest son or daughter. But several generations back the citizens of the gang make a stink about the new ruler who they felt to be a bit of a pansy. Defection was threatened, so the current guild master put ruler ship to a vote. Bloodline still mattered, but the people got to chose which offspring took the throne. Thus all the divisions and people playing favorites toward certain siblings.

"Normally it works out fine," Rial said, wiping his hands off on his trousers after finishing his bread. "But Ackar is in the lead with the most followers, and he isn't exactly da's favorite, if you couldn't tell. Kelath he feels is too worldly, less interested in ruling to maintain the guild, more interested in ruling for the benefits. Sya is smart but can be cruel, and Jyza, though she is my sister, is no better than Ackar. That leaves me and Giana. Da hasn't said it, but he's been encouraging me to make more of an effort to gain followers. I think he wants me to rule."

"Have you?" John asked. "Gained followers, I mean."

Rial tucked his bottom lip under his teeth and shook his head no. "I'm not... very good at it. Not many find burying one's nose in a book much fun."

Good, gosh, could these people be more stereotypically diverse? Idiot, bimbo, brainiac, player, feminist and a calculating, toxic vixen. Rodney stopped chewing the last bit of meat (he honestly hoped it was meat) that had been floating around in the stew. He had the workings of a painfully cliché detective novel right here, the kind that would make the best seller list because it was too damn simple a plot not to follow.

The things they encountered in the Pegasus galaxy. Sheppard's brief acquaintance with Chaya could have made for a kick-ass romance novel, minus any love-making scenes.

Rial shifted the subject to day to day life at the guild, how business was slow thanks to the weather but would probably pick up should the warmth linger. He then took leave of them, calling in a few lackeys to remove the dishes and bring the bedding that hadn't arrived yet. The beds were pallets of straw, stuffed into sheets, and ragged blankets. The team shifted the tables to make room for the pallets to be side by side. It was the usual configuration, this time with John being between Rodney and Teyla. The blankets took a little work to get them layered to form a single blanket covering them all at once. No one said anything, either because they were panicking, or in Teyla's, Sheppard's, and Ronon's case, plotting

Rodney dreamed the same dream of running through immaculate halls from a manic voice that was everywhere, always getting closer. He woke up once to Sheppard's sharp elbow in his chest. The man was writhing, moaning, but Teyla was already on it, rubbing John's back and speaking softly to him. The man looked unnaturally small curled and half-swallowed by the pallet. He eventually stilled with a small shiver and a whimper. He'd been dreaming more since they'd let the mountains, not that there was anything they could do about it, but it still spawned a reason to feel concerned that wouldn't be ignored. Still, again, nothing they could do. Rodney slipped back to sleep and thankfully didn't dream. Morning arrived rather suddenly with someone pounding at the doors, shouting breakfast.

"Get it while there's plenty left to get."

Rodney hauled his stiff body from the shared warmth of the blanket and stood, arching his back until it popped. He joined Ronon in taking the bowls that were handed out, one in each hand for porridge to be ladled and a spoon added after.

"Food always handed out like this?" Ronon asked.

The portly man with the stringy black hair and pregnant-like gut nodded. "Yup. Master's orders. Ensures everyone gets a fair share."

Rodney leaned forward for a peek down the hall to see others going from door to door, slopping the watery sludge into bowls. He grinned. "Huh, room service."

The fat man sniffed and waddled away, swinging the half-empty porridge bucket. Rodney and Ronon returned to the beds where Teyla was just now sitting up. Sheppard continued to sleep and they let him. Back with the mountain Eskimos, Sheppard had slept entire days through, not counting when he was roused for meals. Sleeping in ten minutes to an extra hour had been an improvement.

They were forced to wake him when they realized the porridge congealed fast. He didn't sit up, just pused himself forward enough to reach the bowl and wooden spoon. He looked exhausted, but then he'd been looking exhausted since he'd started moving around on his own.

"So what's the activity schedule for today?" Rodney asked around a mouthful of slop.

Sheppard swirled his hardening breakfast listlessly. "Find a way out of here."

"Eat more, John," Teyla prodded. Sheppard took another tiny bite, then another, until he finally pushed the bowl away. The man's appetite always sucked in the morning.

"By finding a hole in the wall?" Rodney said. "Or whatever might act as a good bribe for Gelfer? Just remember Elizabeth's policy on not trading weapons." When he was met with no response, he looked down to see Sheppard had fallen back to sleep.

---------------------------

The team whittled the day away by wandering the compound, checking, without looking like they were checking, the integrity of the massive wall around the complex. The reconnoitering was a poor effort at best with most of their concentration on avoiding the general population. Ronon was the center of attention and annoyed by it. Rodney was completely ignored and, for once, felt relieved. Teyla and Sheppard were in between and miserable.

While exploring the grounds, groups of men would wander just within reach of Teyla for an attempted pinch on the rear or accidental brush of the shoulder along her breasts. Teyla reacted fast both like a spooked mouse and striking snake. There came no grabbing wrists and twisting them until they snapped. She simply shoved them away, although she did bite one man's hand, which led to a fist fight between him and Ronon. Ronon laid the guy flat just as crowds started to form but before bets could be placed.

Sheppard's suffering was a little more mental with some physical thrown in. The women didn't leer at him the way they did Ronon. They made fun of him. They called him a walking corpse, a sack of bones, diseased, on and on. Sheppard seemed more disappointed that they couldn't come up with anything better. Then the name-calling turned to whispers about John being weak, capable of being brought down by even the smallest female, easily subdued.

"We could force him into a bed and he wouldn't be able to stop us," one woman giggled.

"Not really much of him to bed," said another.

"Does it matter?" another.

John was normally a hard man to read, but he was an open book today. There was that wild-eyed look to him again, the caution that was ready to spill into panic; his breathing accelerating, the color draining from his face until it was perfectly white. What stringy muscles remained in his body pulled so tight there was no doubt in Rodney's mind that one snap of a twig would send the man bolting. In terms of flight and fight, Sheppard was ready for both, like a silent promise that if the women tried what they were planning, if they even attempted to restrain him... Rodney wasn't sure what John would do, just that he would _do_ something, and it would be bad. McKay didn't know whether to call it terror or fury, and sure as hell didn't know what to do about it.

Ronon did. He moved in close to John, hovering protectively with one large paw resting lightly on the decrepit shoulder, shooting the gaggle of women a glance that promised hurt if they tried anything, the fact that they were women be damned. Teyla mirrored Ronon, letting the old Teyla shine through as she threatened with her eyes. She was small, underfed, those woman taller, bulkier from better feeding, but the Athosian woman would take them all and win, Rodney didn't doubt that for a second.

"Maybe we should go inside," Rodney said.

They did, and John immediately calmed, sagging in both relief and exhaustion. The team headed for the stairs only to stop. Ackar was bounding down the steps trailing his flock of supporters, his eyes fixed on Ronon.

"You, big man." Ackar dared to move in close until he was almost nose to chin with the Satedan. He shifted from foot to foot, fists clenched, giving Rodney the feeling a fight was about to break out. But in the brief time of coming to know Ackar, the man was a perpetual fight always waiting to happen. "I want you in the ring."

Ronon snorted and shoved past Ackar. Ackar spun around, red-faced. "You think you can just say no that easy? You wait, big man. My father won't be Master for long. The moment I'm in the throne, you're in the fight ring!"

None of Akcar's followers made a move to stop the larger man. Ronon muscled past them clearing a path for the others. Rodney's shoulder brushed, accidentally, against Ackar's since his entourage didn't allow enough room for a wider berth. McKay was suddenly yanked back by the scruff of his coat and thrown to the floor, Ackar towering over him. "You say something, little man?"

Rodney balked and gape. "Wha... Me? I didn't say anything!"

Ackar grabbed a fistful of collar, lifted Rodney, and slammed a hard right hook into his face. Rodney's head snapped sideways and his vision tried to fade into black.

"What did you say!" Ackar snarled. Then he was thrown back by Ronon for Sheppard and Teyla to rush in and get Rodney to his feet. Ronon attempted to join in but was accosted when Ackar leaped on his back, arms around bigger man's neck and legs around his waist. Ronon easily grabbed both Ackar's arms and flipped him over, only to have Ackar twist onto all fours and lunge at the Satedan with a snarl. He plowed into him, driving him back about two feet. Ronon grabbed him by the collar of the shirt and one arm to toss him sideways. Ackar was fast to recover and bolted forward only to be jerked away by Gelfer.

"Ackar," Gelfer calmly chastised, shaking his son like a bad pup, "time for another talk."

"But da...!"

"No buts, let's go." Gelfer began dragging a kicking and pouting Ackar toward the ballroom, casting a long-suffering and apologetic look to the team before vanishing behind the doors. Ackar's followers milled and shuffled about uselessly. No one tried to stop the team as they finished their journey up the stairs, McKay cupping his throbbing eye and mumbling "ow, ow, ow" all the way.

They burst into the library. Rial, sitting in one of the lounge chairs, looked up from his book.

Rodney sucked in a hissing breath when he inadvertently pressed his palm into the tender flesh of his eye. "Ow, ow, ow, what the hell is wrong with your brother! Ow!" He was shoved into an easy chair, his hand pulled away by Teyla so they could all have a good look at the damage.

"We need something cool to press against it," Teyla said.

"I'll get water," Ronon replied, and headed out.

Rial hovered close by, craning his neck like a rubber-necker at a car-wreck. Rodney curled his lip over his teeth. "Didn't answer my question, kid."

"Ackar did that?" Rial asked.

"No, I ran into a door," Rodney spat. "Of course he did this! I was just walking past him, then he turns around and slugs me as though I'd just insulted his grandmother. I didn't even say anything!"

"Yeah," said John, "it was actually kind of weird." He looked over at Rial. "Is it normal for Ackar to blow up for no reason?"

Rial shrugged. "Sometimes. Ackar's unpredictable. It's what makes everyone respect him. He's usually only the most violent to those he thinks are trying to undermined him."

Rodney rolled his eyes and suffered for it when pain lanced through his skull. He cringed and winced. "Great, a freakin' paranoid with anger management issues. As if life didn't suck enough right now."

"My da says it's because he's afraid. He fights to show his authority, but instead of fighting strong men, he fights those weaker than him."

"He attacked Ronon."

"Oh, sometimes he'll fight the big ones if he's angered enough. If he starts to lose he just gets his men to hold them down so he can beat on them."

"I'm surprised he hasn't gone after Sheppard," Rodney said. "Not that I want him to..."

"Well – and no offense to you, Mr. Sheppard – but my da actually locked Ackar in the cells once for beating on a sick man. My da usually can't stop Ackar from picking on those weaker if those weaker fight back, because then Ackar can blame them for starting the fight and judgment can't really be passed. But if they're too weak to fight, then my da knows who he needs to be punished."

John grinned sheepishly. "Guess it kind of pays to be the weakest of the bunch." It was a poor attempt at lightening the mood. Rodney gave Sheppard a heavy lidded stare but didn't say anything.

Ronon returned with a wet cloth that he tossed to Teyla who pressed it softly to Rodney's eye, lifting his hand to hold it in place. "Keep it there until the swelling goes down," she said.

"I know the routine. So, Rial, if your brother's in the lead in the polls because he's a bully, what does your other brother have going for him? Because, seriously, he's looking like the lesser of two evils here, and if he became leader..."

Rial shook his head dejectedly. "Kelath likes to indulge, charm, and most of his followers are the women. He wouldn't help you any more than Ackar. If anything he'd probably sell you back to the city."

Rodney's stomach clenched. "Okay," he squeaked. "What about your sister, Sya?"

Rial blanched. "She would keep you around for her own amusement."

John was the one who paled at that one.

Rodney wasn't even going to try and suggest the overly buxom blond. "Okay, and Geena, Jean,...?"

Rial perked up. "Giana? Personally, I think she'd be a great leader, but da wants me, I think, because I can read and learn better than anyone. My ma had made sure of that before she died, since I took more of an interest in the stories she would tell us."

Rodney narrowed his eyes thoughtfully. "So you're the favorite, just lacking the support?"

Rial nodded, biting his lip and fiddling with the small book in his hands.

Rodney sat forward. "If we could figure out a way to help you win support, would you let us go?"

Rial stilled, his jaw sagging open. Rodney snapped his fingers rapidly. "Come on, kid, it's not a hard question. You have in your possession the four best people in the galaxy to help you out, here. You need brains, you've got me. Insight into military strategy: Sheppard. Fighting skills: Teyla. And Ronon makes one hell of a body guard should things turn ugly. And since we're kind of between a rock and a hard place, we have nothing to lose. We can help you do this, kid. All we ask in return is that you let us go on our way so we can get back home. It's really not a bad deal if you think about it."

Rial blinked dumbly. "You'd – really help me?"

Rodney tossed up his hand. "Yes! Did I not just say that? We're kind of desperate and you're kind of our best shot of getting home again. So take it or leave it, kid, although you'd be better off taking it."

Rial just stood there for a couple of heartbeats before a hesitant smile finally materialized. "All right."

Rodney slumped back into his seat. "Thank you." He looked up at Sheppard. "Now we have an escape plan."

Sheppard looked uncertain, then gave a nonchalant shrug. "Guess it's better than nothing."

----------------------------

Better than nothing, but easier said than done. They risked leaving the safety of the library the next day to observe people rather than scour for escape routes. Rodney kept close enough to be fused to Ronon's side. Every sudden angry bark, shout, or peel of laughter had him trying to cringe out of existence. The team watched and were watched back. The men moved in close toward Teyla like jackals circling the carcass to grab a scrap of meat. The women winked at Ronon and laughed at John, plotting things that would probably send the man spiraling into new realms of humiliation.

It wasn't until they saw Ackar at a distance, crossing the grounds, that they called it quits, and not just for the day. The sudden acceleration of Rodney's heart rate attempted to slam him into the ground. Ronon managed to catch him in time, so McKay's body compensated by expelling his breakfast and yesterday's dinner. The team surrounded him, hustling him back into the mansion and the library. He was shoved into an easy chair with a cup of water slapped into his hand.

Rodney rinsed and spat before talking. "So Rial is pretty much screwed because his older brother's a complete moron with a temper. And what's the point of even having a leader if no law and order is enforced? That guy with the scar slit that one guy's throat and they dumped the body over the wall. What the hell is that? My gosh, they must have a pile of dead out back."

They, at least, had accomplished what they set out to do. From all the brawls breaking out, the spontaneous make-out sessions if a man and woman so much as passed within inches, and the general populace either lying about drunk or drugged, it was in Rodney's opinion that they were all complete idiots. Those Rial had spoke of as being neutral, the ones who took no sides and no part in the day to day goings on, had been hard to find. They were mostly holed up in dark rooms, huddling like frightened rats – sometimes pissed dogs shooting dagger glares for being disturbed – and taking no interest whatsoever in guild politics. John had talked to them this morning to see where they stood. Taking the side of a less favored candidate, according to these outcasts, always led to 'accidents.' Not really of a deadly nature, but no one liked pain.

Sheppard shuddered. "That probably is their law and order. There was a woman watching. Her clothes were shredded. I think she was raped."

"Gelfer may not have the same influence that he once had," Ronon said. "He always looks tired. I knew a guy like that; always tired. His squadron never listened to him and half were killed. After a while, he just stopped caring."

"Plus he's close to retirement," John added. "And most of his kids aren't exactly good influences. If Ackar or that Kelath kid rule you can sure as hell bet things are going to get worse. They'll probably just kill everyone they run into rather than put up with having more mouths to feed. We aren't the only escaped slaves trying to make it home."

"Ackar's the favorite because everyone's afraid of him," Ronon said. Rodney gave him a withering "no-duh" expression, then looked away, sighing in abject dejection. He was tired of bullies and not because of their abuse.

"Perhaps we could give Rial fighting skills," Teyla said.

"That wouldn't be enough," Rodney muttered. Rial had brains and people with brains were supposed to be able to run circles around the idiot thugs; except all the idiot thugs need do was stick their leg out and trip the guy with brains. There in lay the problem. Hitting was faster than thinking. It was kind of like in that fable, the one with the fox and the cat. The cat climbs a tree to get away from the hounds: one simple solution. The fox wastes time sifting through his assortment of clever escape plans and gets caught for it. McKay had thought it an affront to the genius community when in fact it was a slap to its face with its hard truth. Smart people really did think too much, too long, giving the dumb people time to knock them flat on their butt.

It wasn't so much that they needed a simple solution but a lasting one. Rial wasn't a fighter, and even if he was up to learning how, the guild ruler-ship would have been decided by the time the kid got anywhere. The boy needed something that would not instill fear alone, but fear and respect. Something the half-wits of this place would be so wowed by they would come to Rial like wanna-bes flocking around the popular kid just for a taste of being accepted.

Rodney straightened, passing the cup back to Teyla. "I need to talk to Rial."

"Why?" John asked.

"Information. I need to find out a few things."

Sheppard eyebrows lifted. "You have a plan?"

"Sort of. I don't want to explain it yet, not until I'm sure."

Ronon grunted. "He'll probably be dropping by soon."

The Satedan was right. Rial showed up twenty minutes later at what Rodney now safely assumed to be the kid's usual hour for coming to the library. He took the boy to the far corner of the room for a private conversation concerning minerals, chemicals, metals and the like. Rial showed him books that talked of those very things. The numbers and symbols used meant squat to Rodney, but thorough description of chemical properties – such as them being flammable or toxic – was all he needed. He had Rial fetch parchment and a quill, and together they made a list of chemicals and metals that might be available in their current surroundings.

Rodney had Rial do the gathering since there was no way he was going out there again. Everyone was in agreement to this, which surprised Rodney, and quelled feelings of taking the cowards way out. It really had nothing to do with fear. Every single person in this place was dangerous. Rodney wasn't even sure if Rial could be trusted.

When the kid brought the needed materials, Rodney set to work putting them together using tarnished spoons, spotted glass cups, old clay bowls, and an iron hammer to crush everything.

"Poisons or bombs," Sheppard asked from over Rodney's shoulder.

"More like bombs so I would suggest you refrain from hovering too close. It tends to upset my concentration."

John moved to the side, eying the cups and glasses full of powders, rocks, metals, and liquids as though they might bite. "Are you sure this is a good idea, McKay? Bomb making?"

"Most of what I'm tossing together is for show – homemade flash-bangs, smoke bombs, and sparklers. Stuff they can use in their dirty little business of robbing people naked. If the gang isn't scared-stupid by the loud noises then all the pretty lights and colors should make for a good distraction."

Sheppard seemed genuinely impressed by that. "So no bombs?"

Rodney stopped grinding the calcium collected from the mansion-basement's walls into powder and tensed. "Well... I wouldn't say that there isn't going to be one," he cleared his throat, "or two items that might go boom. Strictly for the purpose of making a show, mind you."

Sheppard scowled. "_What_ items?"

Rodney shrugged in poor indifference. "Oh, just... a few Molotov cocktails and other flammables."

John closed his eyes and shook his head. "McKay, this is a really bad idea. Basically up there with trading P-90s. I know it might not seem like much, but this Rial kid is smart. You give him formulas for making chemical weapons and somewhere down the line he figures out how to make mustard gas."

Now McKay was the one scowling. "Being a bit melodramatic, aren't we? We don't know that."

"No we don't, but we know it's possible. Look at what happened when we tried to offer the fake-country folk a little C-4. Giving away weapons is like giving away money. Some people are content with what they have but most tend to want more. Rial's a nice kid, but we really don't know him all that well. Weapons are power, power corrupts, and he could end up being no worse than Ackar, we just haven't seen it yet."

Ronon stepped forward in a physical act of joining the conversation. "If Rial lets us go, what does it matter?"

"Because he might decide to go back on his word," Sheppard replied. "He might decide to keep us around to keep Rodney around, or let us go but keep McKay anyways."

Rodney gripped the wooden handle of his hammer until his knuckles paled. "Rial's smart. He knew what to look for, he'll know how to put all this together himself. He won't need me."

"We don't know that," John pressed. He was right, they didn't know. Rial could keep them around has his personal lackeys, using McKay as an assistant and the others as collateral. Or Rial could go back on his word as a show of power. People changed when given the opportunity to shine.

But at least they'd be alive, Rodney was pretty sure of that. Ackar would just kill them and that blond, teenage Fabio let the rest of the gang have their way with them.

"Well," Rodney said. "This is all we have. Better Rial back-stabbing us figuratively than us getting back-stabbed literally. Or worse."

"McKay..." John growled.

That was it. He'd tried to be the better man, but Sheppard didn't know when to stop. The man never knew when to stop. Rodney slammed the hammer down hard enough for it to bounce and twisted around, slamming his palm on the table with a reverberating smack. "What do you want me to do, Sheppard! Huh? Invite them to a tea party? Hand out campaign buttons? Or maybe organize a couple of debates so the brainless goons can ask brainless questions. Fear is all these people listen to, _colonel_, so that's what I'm going to give them, a reason to be afraid of the smart guy. I'm sorry if that bashes your sense of moral caution _but it's all we've got!_ I don't want to stay here! I don't want to be someone's servant! _I don't want to die on this freakin'', backwards hell hole_! So let me do what I have to to get us our of here and – _back - off!"_

Rodney was breathing hard, strings of saliva rippling from his lips and chest heaving. He was shaking, twitching, his heart pounding, and his vision smeared in a pink haze that was starting to fade. When it did, his breath caught on the next inhale. Sheppard was staring at him, incomprehensibly and hesitantly fearful, wide-eyed and pale. He was also trembling, not exactly apparent but Rodney was paying close attention because he'd never seen John react like this. It was usually annoyance or grudging acceptance when Rodney blew up in frustration. Not this, not once. Good crap, Sheppard was afraid of him.

Maybe not him, maybe the reaction, the clenched fists, looming and seething. Rodney swiftly relaxed out of his stance, exhaling a breath that took the fury with it.

The fear lingered in John's eyes, cautious, ready and joined by remorse. "I'm... I'm sorry, Rodney."

Great, first name basis. Sheppard didn't do that either, at least not that often.

"You're right," Sheppard continued. He looked away, defeated, shocked, Rodney couldn't tell. Probably both. "You're right." He started to leave. Rodney looked at Ronon and Teyla, expecting accusing looks of disappointment. Both of them were at a loss, but Teyla depressed as though someone had just kicked her favorite puppy.

"Sheppard... John," Rodney stammered. "Wait, no, you're right. I mean we're both right. I didn't mean to blow up like that I was just... I'm just a little nervous working with chemicals and crap, all right? And the arguing wasn't helping."

John nodded. "I know." At least the fear was gone. He was just apologetic now and Rodney could handle that.

"Look," Rodney continued. "I'll come up with a plan B should this one not work. Maybe stash a few cocktails to blow a hole in the wall or something."

John nodded again. "Good idea."

Rodney nodded back. "Yeah," then returned to playing mad scientist. His hands shook when he lifted the hammer. He set it down, clenching his fingers open and close until it stopped. He wasn't angry anymore, there was no place left for anger. So that left only fear.

Rial stopped by at dinner, arriving with the portly man lugging around a pot of stew and a bag of bowls and spoons. From the stains on the utensils, Rodney tried to pretend the spoons were just really, really old rather than unwashed. He told Rial of the plan to use the chemical explosives to impress the masses. Rial really was a smart kid. He was impressed himself, but wary.

"Ackar would probably just take them from me."

"Not if you make more," Rodney said around a mouthful of bread. "I'll teach you how. Knowledge is power, my young friend, never forget that."

Rial left them with a smile on his face and spring to his step. It was still early. Rodney returned to making flash-bangs and fireworks. Ronon and Teyla sat at one of the tables, using a bag of pebbles Ronon had gathered at some time during their last outing to teach Teyla an old Satedan game that reminded Rodney of checkers. Sheppard was wrapped in a blanket, huddled in one of the faded armchairs flipping through a book.

Rodney poured three more bags worth of homemade flash-bangs before deciding to take a break. He dropped into the chair next to Sheppard's with a tired sigh, stretching his back to work out the knots. "Rial's going to have a show for these idiots, I can tell you now. Tomorrow, late afternoon at the earliest."

John nodded without looking away. "Sooner's always better than later."

Rodney leaned to the side for a peek at the reading material. "Don't tell me these people write in plain English."

Sheppard tilted the book for Rodney to see. "Old English, actually, but I was more into the pictures." Medieval pictures like what would be found on tapestries or stain glass windows. Depictions of wars with humans, wars with wraith, beings surrounded in white-light (Ancients). Words really weren't necessary as each picture moved seamlessly into the next, telling their own tale. Societies rose, crumbled, rose again, then came an Armageddon style battle between wraith, Ancestors, and the natives, and the book just ended without a finale.

"I'm guessing the aftermath was this world going into the crapper," John said, closing the book. He set it on the small table by the chair and picked up another from the tiny pile he'd accumulated. The next one was so thick Sheppard's arm shook as he lifted it. There were even more pictures in that one, fewer words.

"I can't stay here," Rodney suddenly blurted. He didn't know why or even where it came from. The words had simply taken a life of their own and jumped from his lips.

Sheppard looked up. McKay swallowed. Those four words had opened a flood gate and the deluge would not be stopped. "This place, mansion, whatever. If Ackar ends up leading... I can't Sheppard, I just can't. I've already survived my quota of sadistic bastard for this year and I can't do it again."

Sheppard, both bewildered but sympathetic, nodded. "Okay. We'll get out of here, don't worry..."

Rodney leaned to the side, gripping the arm of the chair for all he was worth "I can't – help – worrying." He jerked back against the seat, raising a cloud of dust, and shivered. "Every damn day in that stupid citadel: the whipping and punching and kicking and chemicals that didn't even leave a mark. Every damn day. There was no pleasing that son of a bitch. You do right, do as he asks, be so good and obedient you want to hit yourself, and he tries to rip your hair out because he thinks you're patronizing him."

"Who?" John asked softly.

"Joral, head of the 'intelligence department.' Guy was a freakin' idiot but he knew how to get things done. Except..." Rodney squinted, "I don't think he actually did. I think he didn't have a clue what he was doing, so he made everyone else do it for him. And he knew how. Oooohhh boy did he know how. He once..." McKay shivered and gulped back bile. "Crap, he once tried to peel the skin off my arm." He lifted up his sleeve. The cut had been made over the old scar compliment's of Kolya, but it was longer now, coming to the crook. Rodney chuckled manically. "I don't even know why. He was just really, really mad. Kept yelling, kept calling me stupid. You know, after a while, I thought about killing myself? Tried a knife, considered poison, but I couldn't do it. Coward twice over and I can't do that again. I can't, do you understand, _I can't?_ I'm a coward, always have been, always will be. If I stay here... if Ackar wins... I swear I'll provoke that bastard to kill me." Tears stung his eyes. He looked at John and didn't try to keep from begging. "I can't..."

For some reason, Rodney expected anger. It was the usual response whenever Rodney denied being able to achieve the impossible, when he tried to just plain old give up. He actually tensed in anticipation for the light smack to the back of his head. What he got was complete and undeniable understanding that made John seem so much older, frailer, and Rodney wondered if he looked the same.

"I know," John said.

Rodney laughed bitterly. "One more day. If Teyla hadn't come when she did, just one more day and I'm sure I would have gone through with it."

"I doubt that."

McKay snorted. "Of course not." He thumped his chest. "Me, coward."

"No, Rodney, you're not a coward, you're persistent. Killing yourself would have been like quitting and you're not a quitter. You may like having a pessimistic outlook but deep down you cling to hope just as tight as the rest of us. It took courage to hold out, McKay. Like hell you're a coward. And we won't stay here. One way or another, no matter who takes the throne, we're outta here. I swear it, Rodney. Scout's honor and everything."

Rodney gulped and nodded. He believed it, because when Sheppard said it was possible, then it wasn't just possible, it happened. Crap, he'd missed that – Sheppard's seemingly impossible hope. The man talked and miracles happened, not that Rodney really believed in miracles, or would admit to believing. Although he didn't deny they could certainly do with them from time to time, like now.

"You okay, buddy?" John asked.

Rodney twitched, not realizing he'd spaced out. "What? Oh, yes, just thinking."

"Don't think too hard, you might short-circuit something vital."

McKay rolled his eyes. "Yes, like that's such a common occurrence."

"Then what do you call me finding you every morning with your face about to fuse to your laptop?"

"Me taking a break." Rodney glared at John's smirk. "Get back to your picture book, Colonel."

Who would have thought immature bantering would feel pretty good.

----------------------------

They made sure to run their tests in a spot with a lot of open space but also within sight to draw in an audience. It was the moment of truth and Rodney was nervous as hell while Rial was giddy and talkative. He kept asking the same questions over and over, making sure he had everything right and memorized. They started with the Molotov cocktails first; souped up Molotovs that went boom instead of splat, turning the small target-pile of wood into both kindling and ash rather than just ash. The flash-bangs and smoke bombs all worked like a charm. Crowds gathered, oohing, awing, flinching, and applauding at the magical display of destruction.

Then came Gelfer, finally, to see his son's "creations". Of course the boy took all the credit and Rodney gladly let him if it meant a free ticket out of here. Gelfer was impressed, wanted to know more, and of course for Rial to make more. Several from the audience stepped forward, asking if they could help or play with the new toys when they were done. Supposedly, travelers had been seen on the road, taking advantage of the slightly warmer weather.

On the first raid in which the toys were used, Ronon tagged along and gave a full report afterward over dinner.

"Rial went with us," Ronon said. "Wasn't his first time but, according to him, the first time he didn't end up getting yelled at for messing things up. They're actually kind of smart about it. They dress in all brown, take dead shrubs and blankets with leaves on 'em and hide using them – kind of like in that movie with the guy who stole stuff and gave it to poor people."

"Robin Hood: Prince of Thieves or Robin Hood: Men in Tights?" Rodney said by way of a joke.

"First one," Ronon replied while licking his spoon clean. "They used the smoke bombs and flash grenades. Made things go a whole lot faster according to this one guy. We took from city people riding in this really ugly wheeled, motor-cart thing that kept getting stuck in the mud. They had all these guards. Not one of them got a shot off."

"So no one was killed?" Sheppard asked with a look that said he wasn't sure if he wanted to know the answer. They'd all learned hard lessons about interfering with cultures by handing over advanced goodies in any form. Rodney had learned himself that Sheppard, as a leader, took all responsibility for the outcome of these lessons since he was supposed to be an example. McKay had always assumed the pilot had a guilt-trip complex a mile wide. Being the chief scientist on Atlantis, he'd come to realize leadership wasn't about bossing people around; it was also about wrangling them in, disciplining them, and also taking care of them. Sheppard shouldered the responsibility of others because others were his responsibility.

Ronon tossed his spoon into the bowl. "Nope."

The success of the raid started a very swift chain reaction of support, like a domino affect all falling toward Rial. Two days and another raid later had people flocking around the young man, begging to join him on the next job and if they could use one of the loud, exploding bags. Rial brought both Ronon and Rodney for the next to let him see the toys in action. This time it was a party on foot disoriented by the homemade flash-bangs, then smoke bombs. The thieves rushed in, picked the people clean, and took off before the smoke had a chance to clear.

The efficiency was astounding. Rodney would have been more impressed if the moral implications hadn't kept butting in. He was helping people steal. He'd also blown up a solar system and helped a back-stabbing race build a nuke, which was all adding up to a rather dismal ethical track record for him.

McKay wasn't feeling particularly proud about what his chemical creations were doing, but he was rather pleased that his plan was working. Rial was becoming more of a social butterfly, spending less time in the library and more time acting witty around a group of people he'd been initially shunned from. Rodney and the rest observed from a distance. The kid had reached the point where his followers would laugh at the reiterated and butchered physics jokes Rodney had tried to tell the boy.

Pure, unadulterated sucking up. Things were going well.

----------------------------

The stew must have been thicker tonight, warmer, because Rodney was feeling incredibly full and they were all becoming lethargic.

"Guess we'd better call it a night," Sheppard said. He was already getting up and heading over to the pallets. The rest nodded in lazy agreement, Ronon stretching like a cat until his ligaments popped. They curled in their usual huddle that shared the warmth without getting too personal. Rodney was out the moment his head hit the straw mattress. He didn't even dream.

But he did wake up after what felt like ten seconds of rest to a smell that tried to burn off his nose-hairs. He jolted with a gasp and a mumble to be yanked from the bed and thrust into the nearest easy-chair. The room was dusky, barely lit by a single lamp flickering amber in the middled of the table. The light spilled over onto a shapely leg planted on the seat of a chair, golden and smooth. Long-fingered and delicate hands were adjusting an ankle bracelet of dark violet crystals that winked at Rodney. The leg slipped back into the darkness while the hands flipped the chair around. Sya emerged into the light and sat fluidly with the grace and control of a dancer. Although Rodney highly doubted her sinuous motions being the product of ballet lessons. The woman was in a wine-red dress slit nearly to the hip, a low collar, laced straps instead of sleeves that kept trying to slide down her shoulders, red leather boots, and her red hair tumbling down her shoulders in thick curls: if their was a support group for seductresses, she'd be the president.

Sya twisted to have one arm resting on the chair back so she could flick her red-polished nails. She smiled at Rodney. There wasn't anything seductive about that smile. A little coy, yes, but Rodney had seen similar smiles six seconds before meaty fists started pounding him into the ground.

"Mr. McKay," Sya said as though addressing someone both famous and disliked. "We finally meet."

McKay blinked incomprehensibly, diverting his gaze to the team still curled up and oblivious.

"Oh, don't worry about them," Sya said. "They'll be out for the night. Little something I slipped into the stew before it arrived here. Thought you folks could use a good nights rest. But I needed to talk to you, so I guess you won't be participating."

Drugged. They'd been drugged. Well, obviously since Rodney's brain kept trying to shut down. He was starting to get a pretty good idea of what it was like to be slow-witted. He knew he should be angry, scared, but had to get over being confused first and stop having to recall over and over the name of the woman he was talking to.

"Um..." Rodney stammered. "What do you want?" Crap, he even sounded dull. He shook his head, trying to clear it, clinging to fear since the adrenaline usually helped shove back all the lethargy.

Sya smirked. "I want what only you can give me."

Rodney felt a bit of a flush warm his cheeks and he smiled drunkenly. "Uh, really? Gee, um... I'm not normally that kind of guy. I mean, I like women, but I usually prefer blonds and a working relationship. Plus I'm kind of seeing someone. She's not blond but she's still really great. Her name's Katie and..."

Sya rolled her eyes. "Not that. I thought you were supposed to be an intelligent man, Mr. McKay."

"_Doctor_ McKay."

Sya buried one of her manicured nails into the wood of the chair, dislodging a splinter. She was looking a little irate and it was making Rodney nervous. "Yes, whatever. Listen, _Dr._ McKay. I'm not a fool so don't think me one. I know you provided my brother with a service, giving him the formula for those weapons. I want those formulas. Rial may be my brother but he is not fit to lead. He's more interested in his books and contemplating grass grow. Ackar's an idiot and dear Kelath only thinks with his pants. My father is blinded by his desire for Rial to be his heir that he does not see the potential of my leadership. I have my followers, but not enough. I need those weapons to gain more."

Rodney's brain was finally clawing its way out of the fog. He lifted his chin smugly. No way was this power-happy witch ruining his plans. "You think it's that easy? Take the formulas and flash them around crowing that you're just as powerful as your brother? It takes a brain to put these little cocktails together, and a whole lot of guts."

Sya tilted her head. "Who do you think mixed the poison that put you and your friends to sleep? My brother is not the only one who reads. He just doesn't know how to take what he learns and use it to his advantage." She stood, her steps like water as she prowled over to the pallets. "It is rare for a woman to lead the guild. But women have led. My father is a simple man. He believes sticking to the roads and those who travel it the best course of action. There are towns, villages, caravans wandering these lands, ripe for the taking. With those chemical weapons, we can over-power them easily and fill the coffers until they overflow."

Sya knelt at the head of the beds, running her fingers lightly over Ronon's bare arm, up to his shoulder, his chest, neck, then cheek. "My father does not let himself see what we are capable of. What _I _am capable of."

Rodney wanted to say something biting, was ready to, but a sudden attack of dread kept his mouth shut. This woman talking about town raids that would probably end in violence and death was hovering over his team.

"I like this one," she said, toying with the end of one of Ronon's dredlocks. She tore her gaze from him to look at Teyla, brushing away a strand of hair from the smooth forehead. "She's a lovely one. A bit sickly, though." She reached into the blanket to pull out Teyla's arm by the wrist, letting it flop to the mattress. "See how compliant she is? Unresponsive? Vulnerable? Many of the men have expressed an interest her. Some do not wait. They simply take what they want. It would be quite terrible if the poor woman was unable to defend herself."

Someone shifted in the darkness and snickered. Rodney felt the blood drain from his face that was starting to hurt from trying to remain indifferent. "I've seen what happens when people try to take what they want without permission."

Sya barked a sharp laugh. "Oh please. Nothing more than a dispute and most of the time false accusation. It happens often. What is rare is for someone _not_ to want it to happen. Miss Emmagan strikes me as one who would not want it to happen. It would be terrible for her if it did, don't you think?"

Rodney felt sick. Sya moved on to Sheppard, pushing back the blankets enough to look him over like he was livestock. She pulled his shirt up and tsked at the lacerations on his back that overlapped each other, the protruding bones, and the way he immediately started shivering.

"Poor thing," she said, caressing John's cheek. "Wouldn't take much to hold him down. Would it?" She didn't cover him back up when she stood. "There is plenty more poison, Dr. McKay. If you wish to keep your friends safe, I suggest you comply – right now."

Rodney gaped, thought fast, found no solution, so snapped his mouth shut. "I need paper..." he said, defeated. "And something to write with."

------------------------------

"Okay,"Sheppard said, "this is bad." He was slumped in one of the chairs, worried but not as pissed as Rodney had expected him to be. Ronon was the angry one pacing in short circuits with his arms folded tightly. Teyla was next to John gnawing on a fingernail, and Rial was standing beside to the table looking apologetic.

"I should have suspected Sya a little more than I did," Rial said. "She's clever, but she's also self-preserving. I didn't think she would try anything out of fear of the weapons being used against her."

Rodney, sagged heavily in an easy chair, rubbed his aching forehead. After he'd handed over their only ticket out of this place to Sya, he'd covered Sheppard back up then sat there for the rest of the night, waiting for the others to awake. "Somehow I suspect the self-preservation thing was to throw you off. She struck me as someone willing to take risks but knowing how to without breaking a nail. She's not so much a coward just... really smart. And mean, can't forget mean."

"So what do we do now?" Teyla asked.

Ronon halted. "Make her give the formulas back."

Rodney narrowed his eyes scathingly. "Of course, why didn't I think of that? You want me to hold her down while you give her a wedgie or should I? This woman has body guards, the chemical weapons, and the potential to dope us up and make us playthings for everyone else. She's probably already made copies and hid the originals. Face it, we're screwed. This is going to divide up loyalties severely unless we can think of something to make Rial seem more appealing."

They all fell into thoughtful silence for several long minutes when Sheppard straightened. "Let's kidnap Sya."

Rodney bolted upright. "What!"

"That's not a bad idea," Ronon said.

"What? Yes it is. It's a terrible idea," McKay shrilled.

John shook his head. "These people flock to who ever's the most aggressive, and kidnapping someone is a pretty aggressive move. We grab Sya, stash her where no one can find her, and demand that her followers return the formulas. Doesn't really solve the formula issue but it does show Rial as someone who's willing to do what he can to get what he wants."

Rial paled. "Kidnap my own sister?"

Sheppard nodded. "Yeah. Not hurt her, just have her out of the way. I doubt she'll even see it coming."

Rodney shook his head, bewildered, terrified, but unable to deny the logic in John's plan. "This is crazy."

"No more crazy than making explosives. If these people want a bad-ass leader, let's give them a bad-ass leader. We'll go in at night, use the smoke bombs."

"Oh yeah?" Rodney challenged. "Who's going to take her down. No offense but you," he pointed at Sheppard, "couldn't hogtie a kitten and you," he pointed at Rial, "well, she's your sister, plus you also couldn't hogtie a kitten. Ronon tries, she might yell rape and that's going to cause a whole slue of problems..."

Teyla stood. "I will take her." And she said it with the conviction and challenging gaze that dared anyone to just try and deny it. She may have seemed small, delicate, but Rodney couldn't doubt her even if he tried.

------------------------

They came for Sya about midnight, or what they guessed to be midnight. Rial enlisted Giana's help since – according to the young man – the girl no longer felt any sibling affection toward Sya ever since the older woman had locked her in the dungeons out of 'sisterly teasing'. They also brought along a couple of Rial's new followers and a few of Giana's hunting buddies as witnesses and back up. Sya's private chambers were on the other side of the mansion, guarded by two men both thick-armed, bald, and dressed in leathers like biker twins. John and Rodney lit the smoke-bomb sacks and tossed them. Ronon and Giana waltzed into the fog. There was the sound of flesh smacking flesh then both emerged signaling with a wave for Teyla to go.

Teyla gripped two stout sticks and walked through the ornate double doors with a confidence she'd seemed to be lacking over the past few days. There were shouts, more flesh being smacked, more shouting, then Teyla emerged with Sya wrapped in a sheet pressed against her, a stick pressed to the taller woman's throat. The smoke cleared enough for Rodney to see a room of woven rugs, silk hangings, and a canopy bed with a naked male sprawled unconscious on the rumpled blankets.

Sya definitely hadn't seen this coming.

Once they had her around the corner, Sheppard bound her hands and mouth. They shuffled her down hall after hall to an abandoned sitting room where they tied her feet and laid her out on a chaise lounge. Her withering look was reserved for Rial and Giana. Rial shifted nervously. Giana was all smiles.

"I told you you'd pay, Sya," Giana said, then kicked at the chaise. "Not so fun when you're on this end, is it?" She turned to Rial. "I'll keep watch over her."

"I'd have someone help Giana out," Rodney mumbled in Rial's ear, "if you know what I mean." The way Giana was fingering her dagger wasn't boding well.

Rial nodded, dazed, both horrified and astounded at what he was taking part in. Ronon had to nudge to boy hard to get him to speak his part and give Sya the low-down on the situation.

"So until we get the formulas back, you're to stay here and think about what you've done."

They then left the two sisters and their staring contest to wait out the inevitable upheaval that would come in the morning. The team went back to the library.

"You did good, Teyla," Sheppard said. Teyla simply nodded. Her shift in personality made Rodney do a double-take. The old Teyla was gone again as though taking Sya down had worn her out. Or as though the old Teyla had done what she needed to do, so didn't have to stick around anymore. Rodney didn't get it, but then he had no idea what Teyla had been through at the hands of her master, so he said nothing about it.

They all curled back up on the pallets, except for Ronon who decided it a good idea to stand watch, in case someone had seen something and thought to take matters into their own hands.

----------------------------

Apparently, not everyone gave a damn about Sya. Gelfer called an emergency meeting close to evening. Before then, there'd been talk of Sya vanishing but no one had done anything about it, not even her current boy-toy who seemed more preoccupied with not taking the blame.

Everyone was assembled, including a smirking and self-satisfied Giana who had left guarding Sya to a trusted friend. All part of the plan, of course, since Rial was the one who was supposed to be taking the credit. Rodney found it curious that Giana was going along with all this so easily. He'd asked Rial about it, who said Giana was too interested in revenge to pass up an opportunity to make Sya pay, then told horror stories of the things Sya had done to Giana, stories involving having the younger girl chained to the wall of the dungeon for three days straight.

And Rodney thought his relationship with Jeannie had been fractured. Gelfer's kiddies were giving a new meaning to the term "dysfunctional family." So it really wasn't a surprise to see Gelfer annoyed and tired rather than pacing and frantic. He raised his hands for silence and the dull roar tempered into a steady murmur.

"All right then," he called. "All right. It has come to my attention that my Sya has not been seen for the better part of the day – again. If this is another of her temper tantrums I swear..."

Sya's lover stumbled forward, most likely because he was pushed, and stood trembling at the bottom of the dais. "It's no act of petulance, my lord," he whimpered. "We were attacked the other night as we were talking peacefully."

Giana coughed trying not to laugh. Rodney had to agree with her.

Gelfer sighed. "Yes, that's what she said the last time. Giana!"

Giana folded her arms. "Wasn't me, da."

Thus Rial's cue to step forward with a tentative raise of his hand. "It was me, da. I orchestrated it. She stole my formulas for the weapons. I wanted them back. So," he shrugged, nonchalant the way Ronon had shown him, "so I had her taken. You know, to teach her a lesson and get her to give them back. They're my formulas, da. She had no right to them."

The room fell so quiet Rodney thought he could hear a bug yawn. Gelfer arched a gray eyebrow. "Really?"

Rial nodded. "Really, da. I just wanted my formulas back. I'll go fetch her, if you'd like, but I want the formulas."

Gelfer nodded, still bewildered. "All right then. Fetch her. I'll be sure she returns them."

A smile split Rial's face and he took off with Giana trailing to get Sya, leaving everyone to mill about in stunned silence. The murmuring returned, hushed whispers of awe and fear at Rial's audacity. Kidnapping his own sister, and Sya of all people. Jyza being taken they would have gotten, but according to the whispering it was rumored that Sya had once killed a man for not being more pleasing in bed.

Rial, Giana, and several of their followers returned dragging Sya still wrapped in a sheet. Her hair was a mess and she was pissed, her glare promising much pain and revenge. But it was an empty promise what with it being overshadowed by complete humiliation. The whispers skittered louder to be joined by laughter covered up by coughs and sneezes.

"Here she is, da," Rial said. "Safe and sound"

Sya was pushed forward toward the dais. She stood straight and brushed a wild strand of red hair from her eyes. "Da," she said.

"Sya," Gelfer replied. "Rial said you took something of his and he wants it back."

Sya pouted. "But da, I took nothing."

Gelfer's eyes went heavy lidded. "_Sya_..."

Sya huffed and stomped her foot. "Da!"

"Don't 'da' me. I know you, my dear. You are a cruel child, always have been. If you took something from your brother then you had best give it back, or next time I turn a blind eye should you go missing again."

This just kept getting weirder and weirder. The Adams Family had nothing on these freaks.

"Fine!" Sya snapped. She whirled and strode haughtily from the chamber without a shred of dignity left. Giana couldn't smile big enough, while Rial blinked innocently. Gelfer shook his head, feigning disappointment but with a hint of a grin tugging his own lips.

"There has been too much rivalry as of late," Gelfer said. "The day of succession is still four days away, but I feel it best that we clear the air of this matter sooner rather than later." He fell silent, letting everyone talk amongst themselves, until Sya returned dressed and with a stack of papers in hand that she thrust into Rial's chest.

Gelfer stood and raised both hands for silence. "I wish for my children to step forward."

They did, lining up in front of the dais. Gelfer gave them a curt nod of approval. "I will now choose my successor."

Everyone gasped, gaped, cursed, or smiled contentedly. Rodney's heart shot into his throat and he exchanged worried looks with the rest of the team. They had hoped things would drag on a few more days, allowing Rial to accumulate more followers.

Everyone gathered began shifting, moving to form a line behind each of Gelfer's children. Not really a perfect line, just enough to let everyone know where they stood. The team, naturally, moved to Rial.

His was the largest.

"So that's how the voting goes?" Rodney said. "You literally stand behind the one you want to rule?"

Sheppard shrugged. "Whatever works."

Gelfer was smiling. "I had wished, from the start, for my youngest, Rial, to take the throne when I step down. Do you agree?"

The cheering was louder than the booing. People surrounded Rial, clapping him on the shoulders or shaking his hand. Gelfer raised his hand for silence. "Glad to see so many in agreement. Rial, do you accept this?"

Rial opened his mouth, then closed it. "Um... On the condition that Mr. McKay and his friends be my advisers."

Rodney's jaw dropped, Sheppard paled, Teyla blinked as though she'd been slapped, and Ronon growled dropping his arms to his sides.

"What!" McKay yelped. "What the hell! Rial!" he pushed his way through the crowds to the front. "Rial, you little bastard! We had a deal! We had a freakin' deal! We help you and you allow us to leave. We had a damn deal!"

Rial shrugged helplessly. "Sorry, Mr. McKay, but you helped me more than you know, and I could use more of that help. I'm afraid I must go back on my promise."

"Rial!" Gelfer barked. "What do you mean by this? Did you make a promise to these people?"

Rial winced. "I did, but I fear it cannot be kept. They are too valuable to let leave."

Gelfer clenched his fists. "Rial, if you made a deal then you must honor it. Going back on your word makes you incapable of being trusted. I will not have someone rule that cannot be trusted."

Ackar, Kelthan, and Sya smirked.

"I understand, father," Rial said. "Which is why you should elect Giana to rule. She helped me in taking Sya, kept it secret, even planned it. She also planned the raids and how to use the weapons I made. She would make an exceptional leader, father, and I would fully support her if she was allowed. I even gave her copies of the formulas. She is much more intelligent than you realize, da."

All lies except for Giana taking part in Sya's kidnapping. The only copies made were the ones Sya had demanded from Rodney. Everyone looked at a blushing Giana. Gelfer cocked an eyebrow. "Is this true, daughter?"

Giana shrugged. "I have helped plan raids and what not."

"She's a better choice by far." Rial glanced over his shoulder to give his followers a look that said they'd better agree. They did, with nods and murmurs.

Gelfer was momentarily speechless, but after that moment shrugged and plopped back into the throne. "Giana it is then? Do you agree?"

Cheering again, louder than the booing.

"Giana, do you accept?"

Giana straightened. "Yes, father."

"So it is then." Gelfer leaned back, content-looking for once. Giana was engulfed by the crowds for pats on the back and handshakes. Rial squeezed his way through to Rodney, already apologetic.

"Sorry about that," he said. "I really didn't go back on our deal, I promise. Giana'll let you go, we've already discussed it."

Rodney just stared at Rial. He was shocked, thoroughly pissed that they'd been played, yet unable to fight the admiration that was inevitable. "You'd planned this from the start?"

Rial shrugged. "Well, not exactly. I've been scrounging for a way to get da to consider Giana for leadership. You just gave me the means with the deal. Da's an honorable man and wanted an honorable leader. I never wanted to rule, you see. Giana's much better and she has planned many of the successful raids, but Ackar was always the one to take the credit before she had a chance, with no way to prove otherwise."

"But she had so few followers," Teyla said.

"But I gained many, thanks to all of you. Showing my support meant they'd show their's. Folk here don't do well when it comes to making their own decisions. That's why we need leaders or they'd just kill those they steal from."

"But the bottom line is," Rodney jumped in, "we get to leave?"

Rial smiled. "I do have honor, Mr. McKay, I just had to keep my da from thinking it. Yes, you'll be able to leave."

Rodney blinked. "Oh. Well, then, sorry about the whole "little bastard," thing."

Rial chuckled. "I don't even know what that is."

-----------------------------

TBC...

A/N: I've decided that each of the team will have two stories each, so after Sheppard they all have one more story to go unless I feel like extending things. However, with how long these chapters are, two stories each may be as far as I go.

Also, if it seems like Sheppard is getting the worst of things, chances are good that he is since I am first and foremost a Shep-whumper. Although I am trying to be equal about whumping everyone.


	4. Chapter 4

A/N: This chapters a dark one. Bewaaare.

Ch. 4

He hung in the dark like being suspended over an abyss. There was rock below him, rock above him, rock everywhere but it might as well have been in his imagination. There was never sound except for a hollow hum like the echo of a seashell or an exhaling breath that never stopped. If there really was something breathing, he couldn't feel it. The air was still, sitting on him like a dead weight, cold and clammy. When sound did come, no matter how small, it was sharp, painful, making his skin twitch and his heart jerk.

A foot scraped over rock. The sound was abrupt and harsh, shooting off into the darkness like a cat chasing after a mouse. Except the mouse was right here, all trussed up for the taking, half-naked and freezing. He'd been naughty. The overseers didn't abide naughtiness.

Hot, sour breath tumbled down John's neck and over his shoulder.

"The darkness isn't your friend." The voice didn't echo, too deep and too quiet. The darkness wasn't the overseers' friend either, which was why they wore the equivalent of night-vision goggles.

There was a buzz, a crack, and a thin sliver of hot pain slicing through John's back. Sheppard arched and let lose a broken scream. Hot blood slithered over the cooled blood already caking his skin. He could smell it, metallic and sharp, mixing with the oder of rot that always clung to the unseen walls.

The sour breath returned. The knobbed end of the whip handle traveled a straight course down his spine. John shivered, his skin tightening and gut clenching.

"Think about why you're here," the deep voice breathed. John already had and didn't give a damn. A clammy, warm hand pressed against his chest and started moving down toward his stomach. He freaked, he always freaked even after losing count of how many times they'd played this game. He twisted his body, kicked out, thrashing his feet into empty air while snarling like the enraged beast they always treated him as. Laughter bubbled from more than one throat, sharp, constant, and echoing. Hands touched him from in front and behind, down his back, against his chest, across his ribs. He thrashed, bucked, swung, and spat profanities.

The overseers laughed louder. Then came the snikt and clack of his manacles unlocking. His wrists slipped free for his body to plummet into the shallow abyss where his body crumpled on the hard, uneven floor. Bone smashed into rock and John cried out. There was another click. Amber light spilled down from above. John squinted against it, blinking away the flashes and pain until a face came into focus.

Not a face, a skull still retaining scraps of parchment dry skin. Another skull, shriveled, barely decayed, more skulls, bodies, bones surrounding John in a nest of rot.

Sheppard screamed.

Then he gasped. Darkness replaced the light and the skulls. He felt a hand on his back too small, warm, delicate and gentle to be the overseers. It moved rubbing steady circles between his shoulder blades.

"Shhh. John, it is all right," Teyla whispered in his ear. "It is all right. You are safe here. Go back to sleep, you are safe."

John moved enough to press into that hand, focusing on the touch and the motions until the remnant of the dreams thinned and faded like cobwebs. He dropped back onto the solid ground. He didn't want to sleep, was afraid to sleep. His body didn't care, so he centered his world around Teyla's ministrations as he had done since he'd first come to realize they'd found him, and succumbed to sleep, praying he didn't dream.

------------------------------

Giana and Rial had been true to their word and then some. They'd released the team, even giving them back Ronon's gun and what bags of supplies they could find, even restocking them (all previous supplies having already been consumed, no surprises there) and sent them on their way.

That had been yesterday.

Today was a good day for travel. Cool, moist, foggy, but not cold. They kept off the road while also keeping parallel to it. Walking through the forest was like walking on a carpet of wet sponge. John found it amusing while Rodney just complained under his breath.

"You know," McKay said after a time, breathless. "When we do reach the 'gate, how're we going to contact Atlantis?"

"We don't," John said, also breathless. His throat felt like it was rubbing together. He took the water skin from Teyla's shoulder and swallowed a mouthful before continuing. "We go to an allied world, or the alpha site."

"Think they're still using it?"

John handed the skin back and shrugged. "Won't know until we get there." He coughed. They would get there. If he had to crawl or let Ronon carry him, they would get there.

Sheppard had never considered there could come a time when he would despise his own body. But he did, right now, as it betrayed him over and over. He pushed it to its limits and still couldn't hold out until noon. He always staggered before, so of course the others took it as a cue to take a break, costing them precious hours that could have been spent eating up more distance.

He stumbled now and hissed. "Damn it!"

Teyla was quick to catch his arm and steady him. "It is all right, John. We can take a break."

He shook his head. "No. Not yet."

"Oh no you don't," Rodney snapped. "You are _not_ going to start pushing yourself. It'll make things worse."

"Rodney is right, John," Teyla said, caressing his shoulder consolingly.

Sheppard continued to shake his head. "No, you don't get it. I just tripped. I can go a little further. Next time I trip, we stop. Trust me, please. I'm not pushing it." He wasn't because he wasn't stupid. But, man, he was feeling incredibly useless, like a dead weight that needed to be dragged. The others would beg to differ if he said as much out loud, but they weren't the weak ones of this party. He was, the freakin' team leader who was supposed to be getting them out of this mess.

He was giving into self pity, which was funny considering he'd been doing good about ignoring it up until now. He knew his team wasn't going to leave him behind, so had no intentions of arguing for it.

What surprised him was potentially arguing for it, them listening, and leaving him behind on this world to be found and dragged back to those mines. Any past desire to be left behind wasn't really a desire, just acquiescing to necessity. For the first time in John's life it was to hell with necessity. Either he would go home or die. No more caves, no more darkness...

He stumbled ten minutes later, which was better than three minutes, and caved to an early lunch. Ronon found a dry patch where they could sit leaning against a single, wide-based tree as they tore and gnawed salted meat and dried fruit. The outcasts of the Freemen handled storing provisions, Rial had explained. The smart ones who knew better than to take sides. When the team had left, most of those outcasts had been seen milling about beyond the dark safety of their rooms. Talk about a revolution.

After the minuscule lunch, they dozed until whoever woke first (usually Rodney, today being no exception) woke the rest. They continued on into twilight, pausing for Ronon to find a dry spot, cave, or tree hollow. Tonight it was a dry spot, with the bonus of a few dead shrubs to use as fire wood. They surrounded the fire, keeping the light from extending beyond their circle, and dined on more meat and fruit. They then formed their usual huddle, John between Teyla and Rodney. Teyla had her hand on his side. He'd been surprised from the start that her touch had never bothered him. Easy enough to explain. Her hand was smaller, lighter, a change from the heavy hands that had handled him like an old shoe. Hands that were as calloused as sandpaper, trying to rub the skin off his bones.

John shuddered. Teyla's hand curled into a small fist against his ribs. He didn't want to sleep, not if he was going to dream, but there was no room for fear thanks to exhaustion. Sheppard slipped into unconsciousness, darkness, caves, blood, and pain. He woke with a gasp only to return to unconsciousness when another familiar hand rubbed his back, hesitant, unsteady, but trying.

Rodney. The man needed work on his social skills, but he did try, which was way more than what most people did.

John awoke again to a gray misty morning that was unnaturally silent. No distant sounds, bird calls, or even water dripping from the trees. It was as though someone had hit the mute button on the world. The air was colder, crisper, and even wrapped in a blanket John still shivered. It took a moment for his fogged brain to register that he was alone except for Teyla crouched on the other side of the dead fire.

John lifted his heavy head and blinked. "Teyla?"

Teyla's head snapped around, then her body to move closer to John while staying bent. She put her finger to her lips, raising Ronon's blaster. "Rodney went to relieve himself and did not return. Ronon went to find him"

John's heart lurched. He pushed himself up, squirming the layers of blankets off his back. "What? How long ago?"

"I do not know,"Teyla whispered. "It feels long, but I could be mistaken." She adjusted one of the blankets around John's shoulders. A part of him pricked irately at the coddling but he was a little too busy trying not to panic to care.

A twig snapped reverberating like a gun shot. Teyla and John froze, wide-eyed and terrified.

John swallowed. "Whoever it is, they know we're here."

Teyla nodded. "Ronon! Rodney!"

No answer. John felt the blood drain to his feet. "Maybe we should run."

Teyla nodded again. She grabbed John's arm and hauled him to his feet, the blanket dropping. She kept hold of him and they ran, bent-back, away from their camp. They both glanced back. Seeing no one, Teyla pulled John around and pushed him down into a huddle against a tree.

"Stay there, I will draw them off." She then left.

John scrambled to his feet and took off after her. "Teyla, are you nuts! We need to stay together. Teyla!"

She stayed ahead of him as though running away from him. It was scary, all this separation, this uncertainty. Teyla was panicking, John was sure of it, and she never panicked. Hell, _he_ never panicked. But they'd been scared from the start. Fear of being caught, of pain, of solitude, and thoughts of never seeing home again were turning them into something they were not, reducing them to instincts of survival and even less than that, shoving rational thought aside as though it had no place. John hated it, so focused on that anger to shove back at fear and be the clear-headed one.

Then he tripped, again, falling face-first into the moss. He look up spitting water in time to hear a high-pitched whine and see Teyla stumble, slow, waver, and finally drop.

"_Teyla!"_ John pushed his way back to his feet and ran. He charged without rational thought, without fear. He did not acknowledge the figure dressed in a brown cloak except as a target that needed to be eliminated, because it had hurt Teyla. With a snarl, John plowed into the figure crouching at Teyla's side and knocking it down. He let his fists fly striking flesh and cloth, over and over in a red-hazed fury. He reveled when he felt bone crunch under his fist and hit harder.

The figure under him was stronger. It struck back, just once, giving itself a window of opportunity when John arched back away from the blow. The figure flipped him onto the ground, rolling on top to straddle his stomach. The figure then grabbed him by the throat, squeezing, creating a new distraction. As Sheppard clawed at the hand trying to kill him, the figure's other hand pulled a wooden bludgeon from its belt and struck him across the temple.

Everything shot into black.

-----------------------------

John snapped awake with a gasp to the familiar pain in his shoulders, chest and stomach, and tensed in manically terrified anticipation. He waited five heart beats for the burning sliver of pain tearing his skin, until he finally realized something was missing.

The darkness.

Gray light showed him everything: mossy trees, loam covered earth, and his team-mates on the ground, sitting upright tied to the base of a tree, their chins to their chest unconscious. John's breath caught in a stutter.

"Teyla?" It was hard to talk hanging a foot off the ground, his ribs spread to their limit until he thought they would tear through his skin. "Ronon? Rodney!"

Rodney's head lolled and he moaned but didn't wake up.

Sheppard looked up at the ropes knotted around his hands and securing him to the tree branch. He twisted his body, wriggling his wrists. Bind him and he'd fight. He'd made it a promise and it had turned into instinct. Rational thought was trumped by panic and rage. He lifted his legs and kicked out to jerk his body, pulling against the ropes and the branch. The branch bounced, creaking.

"Come on," John gritted. He kicked again. "Come on!" And again, twisting and writhing harder and frantic until the ropes started tearing the skin of his wrists, and there wasn't much skin to tear.

John curled his lip from his teeth, kicking out, swinging, twisting – thrashing. "Come on! Come on! Come on!" Blood snaked down his arm. Good, lubrication. He needed the lubrication. It had worked before when he'd tried to escape... his first owner or the overseers? He couldn't remember and didn't care. He threw himself back, spinning, swinging, and snarling.

"Sheppard!"

His name. Since when the hell did they ever use his name? He wasn't Sheppard. He was worm, grub, and creatures with names in languages that had no meaning. He was their wild little pet sent to them for their amusement, because they liked watching things squirm.

Sheppard lashed out with his foot to keep them back.

"Sheppard, stop!"

"Colonel!"

"John please, stop!"

Blood soaked into his shirt. Shirt. He wasn't supposed to have a shirt. He felt the ropes begin to loosen, the tree branch bend farther. Just a little more, a little harder. "_Come on_!"

"John! Stop, please, you are hurting yourself."

A bunch of crap. He didn't feel a thing.

One hand slipped free to leave him dangling by the other. He used the already present momentum to swing his arm and part of his body up to reach the still-bound limb. He resumed thrashing, tugging at the ropes. He was so damn close to freedom that he didn't care how he accomplished it. He just had to be free.

"_Come ooooon_!"

His fingers bled as he pulled until enough space was achieved for the other wrist to slip free. He fell to the ground in a boneless heap and pain rolled over him like a surging tide. He curled up into an agonized ball and whimpered. He didn't want to open his eyes. He knew what was waiting for him and, just once, he wanted to be dragged away from this place without seeing it.

"John?"

John opened his eyes, forgetful in his moment of shock at hearing his name. No corpses, no skulls, just the pale, terrified faces of his team. Ronon was doing his own squirming trying to break free, while Teyla and Rodney just stared.

Tears rolled down Teyla's cheeks to vanish into her trembling lips. "John?"

John stared at her, bewildered, confused. With a sharp exhale, it hit him like a sack of bricks that he'd been delirious. And he'd been delirious because he'd panicked. He'd never panicked, ever, and it confused him all the more.

"John, please," Teyla begged. "Get up."

John blinked and did as he was told since he didn't know what else he was supposed to be doing. He pushed himself to his knees, grimacing against various pains throbbing through his body. The worst centered at his bleeding wrists, especially the right one. He felt sick, dizzy, tired but also wired, his body shaking and his heart pumping. He needed to get a grip. Something was wrong, there was danger, they needed to get out of here.

John nodded, satisfied with the assessment. He didn't need details, just a handle on the here and now. Looking at his team, the logical course of action was to release them. He shuffled on his knees toward them, reaching out with bloodied hands dripping crimson drops patting softly on the spongy earth. It was the only sound beyond his own harsh breaths.

"My gosh, Sheppard..." Rodney's voice cracked. Sheppard had a feeling it was supposed to come out as an admonishment, but McKay's look of wide-eyed horror didn't let it.

John scooted up next to Teyla and tugged at the ropes securing her hands to the tree. The constant flow of blood was making it difficult to work the knots.

"John," Teyla said. "You must stop the bleeding, there is too much."

John lifted his hands and stared at his wrists. He was bleeding a lot, too much, and it hurt.

"You!"

Sheppard swung around to see a familiar cloak-clad figure standing frozen several feet away. The figure lifted a single hand holding a long wooden bludgeon to point it at John. "How did you get loose!"

"John, run!" Teyla shrieked.

Like hell he was running. He scrambled to position himself in front of Teyla, the nearest target, and placed his feet under him, tensing his calf and thigh muscles in preparation to pounce. The figure saw this, moved in close but not too close, keeping the bludgeon raised as though confronting a rabid animal. "Stay where you are. You move, I cave your skull in."

The voice was husky, either female trying to sound male or a very young male trying to sound like an adult.

"We mean you know harm," Teyla said loudly. "Please, do not hurt him. He is only trying to protect us and he is injured."

Specter – because they were like a specter without face or gender – risked moving a little closer. They didn't seem to be listening, or didn't care. John reached back and placed one hand on Teyla's shoulder, keeping himself aware of where she was and to let specter know he wasn't going anywhere without these people. Specter paced back and forth moving an inch closer each time as though thinking Sheppard wouldn't notice. But he did notice. He wasn't stupid.

Then specter stilled and reach into its cloak with its free hand. Sheppard lifted his head trying to see what was being removed and prepared himself to bolt out of the way in case it was a projectile weapon.

Specter's hand darted fast, emerging then flicking, tossing a cloud of brown powder into Sheppard's face. The powder burned like acid and John howled, lurching back, slapping his hands to his eyes.

Feet pounded over the soft earth and Teyla screeched. "Nooo!"

John felt a hand fist around the collar of his shirt, shoving his back against the tree. He opened his teary-eyes enough to see specter's blurred form raising the bludgeon. John cringed, recoiling against the tree.

"Corla?"

Specter froze for a breath then whipped its head around. "Mother!"

John rubbed frantically at his eyes until the water cleared away enough leaving only a halo of shimmering gray light. He saw a woman through the fine, transparent haze, an old woman thumping the loam with a walking stick. But this wasn't some stooped, frail grandmother steps away from the grave. The woman was short, but stood straight and tall, the walking stick more of a habit to carry around than support. She had raven black hair streaked in iron gray pulled back in a pony-tail, and all wrinkles were situated mostly at the corners of her mouth and eyes. She was dressed like a hunter in a heavy coat minus the plaid, and dark tan trousers. Hanging from her shoulders was a wicked looking crossbow and a sheath of bolts. She tromped up to specter, stopping just a few short feet back, and placed her hand on her hip.

"What do you think you're doing, daughter? I told you to wait for us."

Specter – Corla – jerked John. "This one escaped and was about to help the others. I was stopping him."

The old woman cocked an eyebrow, looked at John, the team, then over at the branch where John had hung. Her eyes rounded over as she took in the blood-stained rope. "Corla, please tell me that you did not suspend him from that tree."

"I had to, mother. There was no room left to tie him with the others and I didn't trust him not to try and escape. He's wild, mad." She yanked back her hood with the hand still holding the bludgeon. "You saw what he did to me."

John's captor could not have been older than twenty, with raven black hair like her mothers and an oval face with a sharp chin. She would have been quite lovely except for the bruises around both eyes stemming from the now misshapen nose.

"He was only protecting me," Teyla said in a cracked voice. "He was frightened, we all were."

"It was self-defense," Ronon growled. "I don't think you can argue with self-defense."

The old woman drummed her fingers against her hip. She looked from the team to the bloody rope, then back to the team. "Corla, release the woman."

Corla balked. "Mother!"

"To tend to the man before he bleeds to death. Do it, now." The old woman turned and it was then Sheppard realized there were others gathered, two more young women with black hair, one older than Corla and the other a teenager, her hair cropped close. Trying to hide behind the older girl was a boy of about eight with a shaved head. Women and children, lovely. Sheppard was going to feel like quite the ass if he had to fight these people.

"Enia," the old woman said. "Fetch the bandages. Pree, bring a bowl of water and a cloth. Hurry, now."

The two girls nodded and hurried off, the boy trotting after. Corla released John in order to pull a knife from her belt. She kept the tip of the bludgeon against his chest as she cut through Teyla's bonds. "Nothing funny now."

John smirked, feeling a little drunk and not in a pleasant way. "If I wanted to try something funny, one of us would be dead."

Corla sawed until the ropes fell free, then scurried back beyond reach. Teyla rubbed her wrists before tugging John closer to her. She took both arms below the abrasions and looked them over. Moisture shimmered iridescent in her eyes. "Oh, John..."

"I'll be all right." The bleeding had already started to slow.

The old woman moved closer with Corla flanking her. The girl's green eyes flashed hot and deadly, her fingers twitching on both weapons. The old woman was calmer, but cautious.

"I must apologize for what my daughter did," she began. "We are not trusting of strangers but there was no reason for the cruelty she showed you." She shot a vicious glare at he daughter. The girl withered, lowering her gaze as well as her arms, just for a heartbeat, before tensing again.

The older woman sighed, returning her gaze to the team, jerking her chin at them. "Your friend saw us this morning as he was relieving himself."

McKay stiffened, looking indignant. "And yet a simple hello hadn't been sufficient. You had to hit me with a poison dart. I was waving at you people. How the hell does waving come across as a hostile action?"

"We are cautious," the old woman said, short and sweet with a hard look. That look melted into something more uncertain, abashed. She turned abruptly, grabbing her daughter by the arm and hauling her just out of ear shot. They argued, low and hissing, pointing rigid fingers at the team. The two girls and little boy returned with the requested items that were set within Teyla's reach. Teyla pulled them closer and began wiping John's wrists.

Her ministrations were gentle, but the water stung and John hissed. Teyla flinched. "I am sorry."

Sheppard shrugged. "You're doing fine."

The old woman returned with Corla following contritely. "We will let you go if you swear not to seek vengeance on us. We meant you no harm and we would like to make up for what was done, have a chance to explain our actions."

It was Rodney who replied. "Just like that?"

The old woman dipped her head. "Just like that."

John narrowed his eyes. Caution poked and prodded out of ingrained habit. He thought long and hard concerning what the hell this old woman could be up to. It was kind of hard with them already at the woman's mercy. If this was some kind of a trick then it was either incomprehensibly elaborate or incredibly stupid, and this woman wasn't coming across as stupid. The Corla girl he didn't trust on principal – she'd strung him up like a piece of meat in a butcher shop. The old woman, however, rippled with an aura of sincerity and shame that was hard to ignore.

She didn't even wait for an answer. She jerked her chin at the team and Coral rushed forward, slicing through the bonds, then scuttling back. John stared hard at Ronon with the look he normally wore when he wanted the Satedan to stand down. It ended up being unnecessary as Ronon was coming off as more confused than pissed. Sheppard chalked it up to the equal of good and bad they'd encountered since being taken as slaves and escaping. It was hard to know what to think anymore.

Still, trust was a precious commodity that John had no intentions of handing out freely.

"How about our weapon?" Sheppard said. "I promise we won't use it on you but we're feeling kind of vulnerable without it."

The old woman took a moment to ponder this, then nodded. Slumping, Corla reached into her cloak, pulled the blaster, and tossed it to Ronon. Dex checked the safety and setting before holstering it. He nodded to the old woman. "Thanks."

John couldn't help a smile. An olive branch in the form of a weapon. Now that was all kinds of messed up.

"My name is Lieta," the old woman said. "And if you are so willing, I invite you back to our camp. We have food, fires, herbs that help heal wounds, and there is safety in numbers."

Sheppard couldn't argue that. He let Teyla finish wrapping his wrists, then, with her help, stood. "I'm John Sheppard. This is Teyla Emmagen, Ronon Dex, and Rodney McKay."

Rodney gave a tiny wave. "Hi."

"Just to be clear on a few things," John continued, "if we accept your offer it's not going to turn into you taking us to your camp just to be tied up there or put in some cage?" At any other time that would have incited a few chuckles, but John was serious and everyone knew it.

"I swear by my children and grandchildren that this will not be so. Our intent was never to harm." Lieta turned and started off, leading the way with the three girls and boys spreading out, taking point. The team followed.

"We will go back and fetch your supplies," Lieta said, "since it is still early. When we saw you, Mr. McKay, the light was poorly and we could not identify you for what you were. This is dangerous territory we walk through. Slavers by day, Syvyar when evening comes."

"Syvyar?" Teyla asked.

Lieta stopped and turned to regard the team with a furrowed brow. "Syvyar. The Snatchers?"

"You mean the wraith?" Ronon offered.

Lieta became even more confused, just for a moment, when her eyebrows lifted. "You are not from this world."

"No," John said. "We're not. We're traders. We were taken when we stepped through the ring then sold." An ambush, by soldiers, because the government in the west had been huffy about the Lanteans refusing trade with them, so gave into the attitude of "if we can't have them, no one can."

Lieta lifted her chin." Ah." She turned and resumed walking. "Which would explain why we found you in Syvyar territory with only one weapon. Do you know of the wraith worshippers?"

John grimaced. "We've come across a few, yeah."

"The Syvyar were worshippers once, or so the stories say. Except worship and reward was never enough for them. They were obsessed with the immortality and strength of the wraith. They did not want to simply bow to them, they wanted to _be_ them. Which, of course, is impossible."

The team surreptitiously exchanged looks of discomfort but kept their mouths shut.

"The Syvyar believed the wraith's immortality lay in their eating habits. So they adopted those habits."

"How's that possible?" Rodney said. "Blood drinking?"

"At first," Lieta replied. "When it didn't work, they... stepped things up a bit."

"Think of the lambs, Clarice," Sheppard muttered.

Rodney's face twisted in disgust. "Eww! As if there wasn't enough man-eaters in this galaxy."

Ronon looked just as disgusted, even a little green. "They eat human flesh?"

Lieta nodded. "For many generations. My grandfather and father told me the stories. It was as though the Syvyar did not wish to give up, even though the consumption of human flesh did nothing. My grandfather theorized that the Syvyar had hoped immortality would come over time, that by devouring their own kind they would eventually change into the wraith. Well, they did indeed change. It is said that not even the wraith will touch them now."

An image popped into John's mind of that show, the one Miko had gotten everyone into after bringing the DVDs back with her. "Firefly" that was the one, and those cannibal people – Reevers.

"It is why we did what we did, why we attacked you. It is hard to tell friend from foe in the weaker light and Corla has yet to see an actual Syvyar for herself. I let her chase after you since she was already doing so. It was my mistake. She hung you from a tree, Mr. Sheppard, as the Syvyar will hang those they devour. I would say she is naïve and does not know better. She does, she simply does not take the stories seriously. What was done to you was terrible and I cannot offer enough apologies, only hospitality."

John will still shaken, still pissed, but not enough to take it out on the old lady. "It's all right. I lived." Corla, however, he'd prefer not to be within five feet of.

"So why aren't we, exactly, fretting over these Syvyar now?" Rodney asked glancing over his shoulder.

"Because they prefer not to act when it is so light. The Syvyar are cowards. Crafty, but cowards."

The image of reevers flitted from John's mind.

"They avoid daylight, roads, and large numbers. However, that's in terms of swarming their prey. If you do not have someone keeping an active watch during the night, the Syvyars will attempt to drag off those who are sleeping. Actually, my father said they will sometimes kill then drag, or render immobile to keep the... _meat_... fresh. They are adept at attacking so swiftly the victim makes no sound."

"Okay," Rodney squeaked. "Why the hell didn't anyone warn us about these Syvyar?"

"I, too, have not heard anyone mention them," said Teyla.

"Syvyars make for unpleasant conversation." Lieta replied. "You will not hear of them unless there was an attack, and as I said before, they avoid the road. It marks the end of their territory and they do not cross their own boundaries."

"So why not travel on the north side of the road?" Ronon asked.

"Slavers lurk there."

Enough said.

"I invite you to travel with us to make up for what was done," Lieta went on. "My people know of the Syvyars, how to avoid them while also avoiding the road. I'm afraid it may add a few days to your journey, but the nearer you come to the ring, the more likely you are to encounter the slavers. Taking the long way, you risk the Syvyars. But the Syvyars have limits, the slavers do not."

"We call that choosing the lesser of two evils," John said.

Lieta shrugged. "Whatever helps you survive is always the better choice."

The soldier in John whole-heartedly agreed.

It did not take them long to return to their little camp and gather their things. It took longer to reach Lieta's camp. Twilight came early to the woods and it was dark by the time they spotted the fires as orange dots through the trees. Rodney was wheezing, Teyla limping, and John had resorted to leaning against Ronon just to stay upright. They entered the camp consisting of two wagons hitched to animals like pony-sized camels with beaks instead of lumpy snouts. The occupants stood or froze – kids, all of them. Three girls from around twelve to eight to six, and two more boys, one thirteen and one five. No older males. Of course, John found this odd, but he didn't feel it polite to say anything.

Ronon, however, held no such compunctions. "Slavers?"

Lieta nodded. "They attacked our camp, scattered us, took mostly the men and teenage boys. The last I saw of my husband, he went off with my daughter's husband into the woods to lead the slavers off. We believe there is a shortage of manual labor, especially in the mines."

John's heart thudded so hard he stumbled. "Gee, I wonder why?" he spat.

Lieta either didn't hear or had nothing to say to that. She started barking orders for pots to be put on the fire, food gathered and chopped, and for someone to bring her healing herbs.

"Can we be of any help?" Teyla offered. They could be fighting for their lives in the heat of battle and she would still recall when to be courteous. John found it refreshing and it made him smile, just a little. A real olive branch this time.

Lieta shook her head resolutely. "No, you are our guests. Sit, get warm, food will be ready soon. Mr. Sheppard, it may be wise to take a second look at your wounds."

There were three fires blazing. The nearest Lieta directed the team to sit at, the fire on the right was warming an iron pot hanging from a spit, and the third the old woman led John to. Teyla followed close behind.

The oldest boy brought stools without being asked. Lieta sat on one and gestured at the other. "Sit."

John dropped into it and held out his wrists. Lieta was neutral as she removed the wrappings, and remained neutral after they were off, except for a twitch in her cheek. Sheppard's wrists were raw and wet reflecting light off the oozing flesh exposed by the removal of the outer skin. Old blood still crusted the skin and fresh blood had become tacky. All together, the damage extended from the tips of his fingers to below the veins of his wrist. He was damn lucky he hadn't bled out.

Lieta was gentle as she turned his arms to look the wounds over. The right wrist was darker; purple, blue and black beneath the red, and swollen.

"You put up a vicious fight to get free," Lieta stated.

John shrugged, tense and suddenly self-conscious. "Yeah, well... I don't like being tied up. Not like that."

"Not like that," Lieta echoed softly. "I don't really blame you."

Children brought her two bowls, one with pungent water and the other with some sort of beige paste. Lieta took the cloth from the bowl of water and squeezed the scented liquid onto John's wrists to soften up the hardened blood.

"Mum!" One of the younger girls, the teen, called. "The stew isn't thickening."

Lieta passed the cloth over to Teyla. "Could you do this? When you are finished washing, apply the byak paste to the abrasions, then wrap his arms from fingers to elbow. The water cleans the wounds, the paste keeps the wounds clean." She moved to let Teyla take her seat.

Teyla dipped the rag into the bowl and squeezed more water over John's arm, twice. Her motions were so hypnotically methodical as she wiped away the blood that John felt himself begin to mentally drift until he barely felt the sting that made his fingers twitch. Except when a thread of the cloth caught on a ragged edge of flesh. John hissed, jerking his arms back.

"Sorry," Teyla said. "I am so sorry."

John shook his head. "We've already been through this. It can't be helped. Better pain now than infection later."

Teyla dipped the rag, squeezed it, and wiped. She was quiet, but not in the way she had been since they'd found each other. This was an uncomfortable silence, full of tension and uncertainty, as though Teyla were afraid to speak at all. It was starting to make John nervous.

"Teyla...?"

"I am sorry," she blurted. She looked up at him in desperation. "John I am so sorry I left you. I did not want you caught, I wanted you safe. I wanted just one of us to be safe. I wasn't leaving you, I was trying to protect you, but I did leave you," her voice caught, hiccuping in a sob. "I left you." She said the words in horrified realization, pressing a shaking hand to her mouth. Tears flashed amber and red down her face. "By the Ancestors, I left you." Teyla bowed her head, squeezing her eyes shut as she shook and convulsed in silent weeping. "I left you."

John's heart broke, shattered, stabbing him with shards of guilt, sorrow, sympathy, fear, and understanding. He wanted to reach out and embrace her like a child, tell her that everything was going to be all right and that he didn't blame her. But his arms wouldn't let him. So he settled for leaning forward and pressing his forehead against hers.

"Crap, Teyla, it's all right. I know what you were trying to do. You shouldn't feel guilty for that. Just... please don't feel guilty. You were trying to save me, which is exactly what I would have tried to do and you know it. Don't feel bad about trying to do the right thing, please. And we're still here, the both of us, all four of us. We're still alive and together. That's all that matters."

Teyla nodded but kept sobbing. John let her, keeping his forehead against hers, his presence a constant within her personal space so that she wouldn't forget he was still there any time soon. After a moment, the shuddering and gasping quieted. Teyla lifted her head away, wiping lingering tears from her face, then picking up where she'd left off.

"You're a good person Teyla," John said. "I've yet to see you do anything that wasn't for the right reasons."

Teyla smiled at that. It was a little tentative, but it was still a smile. She wiped away the last of the blood, then gathered a wad of the paste onto her fingers and smeared it over the lacerations.

"Anyways," John said, sheepish. "I should be the one apologizing... for the freak-out. I, uh, apparently scared the hell out of you guys doing that."

Teyla paused. "It was not the 'freaking out' itself that frightened me. It was more..." she furrowed her brow, "that you were terrified enough to react in such a way." She continued, smearing on more paste, then wrapping John's arms to his fingers, leaving his thumbs free, binding the right arm tighter than the left. When she finished, she placed her hands lightly on either side of John's face and met his gaze. "I swear we will not let it happen again." She then took him by the upper arm to help him stand.

They moved back to the fire where Rodney and Ronon sat, Ronon holding up blankets for them to take. Teyla handed one to John and wrapped the other around her shoulders. She sat beside Rodney, and John beside her. Rodney leaned forward studying them in that way of his, both analytical and nervously concerned.

"You guys all right?"

"As good as we're going to get," John said, which was the best he could come up with. They weren't fine, neither were they any worse off.

Rodney reached out, rather hesitant, to pat Teyla on the back. An outsider would see the action weak at best. People who knew him saw beyond the gesture to the attempt that would never be made for anyone else. McKay was more compassionate than most gave him credit for, it just took a little translating to see it.

Teyla took Rodney's hand and clasped it between both of hers, moving her elbow until it brushed up against John's. Across from them, Lieta tapped a wooden spoon against the pot's rim and told the oldest boy and teenage girl to fetch the bowls.

----------------------------

John threw his legs out into the abyss, scissor kicking and twisting, spinning, but never once hitting flesh. It stripped him of his energy leaving him hanging like a piece of meat. That's when the hands always came, stroking him, hitting him, pushing him so that he swung, and all John could do was snarl and sob.

Then jerk awake to someone trying to stab him in the shoulder with their elbow. John lifted his head and stared dumbly at the writhing figure tangled in the blankets until he realized it was McKay. Rodney's eyes were squeezed shut. He was battling his own nightmare. John reached out and shook him by the shoulder. The result was for the back of Rodney's hand to come flying at his face. Sheppard easily cringed away from it in time thanks to the freshly ingrained instinct to avoid all striking appendages.

Rodney bolted upright and gasped. "Whoa! Geez! Damn it!" then he sighed. "Crap."

John picked his head up off the folded blanket acting as his pillow. "You all right, Rodney?"

McKay slumped back, resting on his elbows. "Yeah. Bad dream. Involved lots of running and going no where."

John flinched in sympathy. "I hate those."

"Yes, well... at least I wake up. The real life version didn't come with those kind of perks."

"You were chased."

Rodney nodded. "My rather sadistic boss had temper tantrums for no reason. He'd chase everyone from the studies, usually waving this riding-crop thing he always stuck in his belt, or a cane, or just start throwing things. Problem was, me being the slowest, I got the brunt of his need to vent."

John didn't hold back a second flinch. "At least it's over now," he said, pushing for positive.

"It's over when we're back through the gate," Rodney replied. "Until then it's more like a stalemate. We could just as easily end up going back, or end up someplace worse," then he added, like an amendment when he finally looked over at John, "not that we'll let that happen or anything, of course."

"Of course," John said.

"Like hell we're going back."

"I'll fight until they're forced to kill me."

Rodney didn't whole heartedly agree, but neither did he balk. He had a look of resignation, but it was a sullen one. He didn't want to die. Neither did John. The alternative, however, was just too much bad for it not to be an option.

"But let's focus on making sure it doesn't come to that," John added. It was only fair since he was the one who wanted to be positive.

It was a gray, overcast early morning. The dropped temperatures had turned the carpet of spongy loam brittle and crystallized, crackling beneath them if they so much as shifted. John and Rodney tried to go back to sleep but gave up when everyone else began stirring. Lieta, her children, and grandchildren tossed fresh wood onto the ashes and stoked new fires licking the base of the metal pots. Breakfast was a porridge that reminded John of rice pudding, and gray bread. After breakfast, the children dumped and cleaned the pots before loading them back onto the wagons.

They were ready to go in what felt like minutes. The smaller children were set on the buckboards of the wagons. The rest were armed with knives, swords, and daggers, with Lieta and her two oldest daughters exchanging cross-bows for rifles. She passed curved daggers out to the team.

"You keep these on you at all times," she said. "Especially as you sleep."

John tucked his knife into the leather belt that was keeping his pants up above his bony hips.

"If they had rifles," Rodney whispered into John's ear, "why didn't they use them on us?"

The answer was so simple John thought it should have been obvious. "To save ammunition. Plus you now how trigger-happy high-strung people get."

Rodney reared his head back in righteous indignation. "Hey!"

"It wasn't a remark toward your shooting skills, Rodney," John said. "Although I won't deny that you're probably more dangerous with a gun than most marines, even if your aim does suck."

Rodney was sputtering too much to respond with a witty retort. He was soon distracted by the wagons trundling and rattling as the beasts pulling them were tugged into motion by those on foot.

"Stay close to the wagons," Lieta said. "If you see movement out in the woods, tell us but do not act. We know how to track the Syvyar without stumbling into one of their traps."

"I thought you said the Syvyar didn't come out during the day?" Rodney said.

Lieta glanced over her shoulder. "I said they prefer not to act during the day. Cowardly, remember? They attack when it is most advantageous. I also said they were clever. If they can't come to you, they will try to bring you to them, draw you away, bring you close to their settlement – where ever their settlement is for the day – where their numbers are greater and they can swarm."

"They do not reside in one spot?" Teyla asked.

"No."

Rodney paled. "Then how do we know we're not walking right into their settlement now?"

"Because we would have seen them by now. They would be trying to lure us away. See one or two Syvyar, you are safe. Three, four, or five and you are tempting fate. Any more than that and you are dead. But there is a much simpler way to avoid them."

"How?" asked Ronon.

"You'll see."

The wagons, crackling loam, and heavy breathing were the only sounds. It was hard to say if the silence was unnatural. Winter was generally a quiet time of year, but John's already ragged nerves wanted him to read into it as something that he needed to worry about.

His nerves were probably right.

It was a rough road they took. The frozen moss hid gnarled roots, potholes, rocks, and abandoned animal holes. John was surprised the wagons stayed in one piece the way they bounced and rocked. It was even more of a shock that all the stuff piled in the beds had yet to fall out.

There was a cold wind blowing in gusts that sliced against the exposed skin of John's face. It pushed against him in bursts, tugging his clothes and the thinner branches above them. The wagons drowned out the creaking until they stopped for a quick lunch of bread and dried meat-strips. The laughter of children was always pleasant to hear but today it was a relief, like the absent bird-song, letting them know that, at the moment, everything was all right. John's nerves eventually got the hint and stopped prodding him to remain on high alert, which drained him quicker when combined with stumbling over hidden forest obstacles.

When they stopped for the night, Ronon volunteered to take watch. John tried to, just to try, knowing full well it wouldn't happen. It didn't lessen the blow any.

John dreamed the same dreams that woke him before he was ready. Teyla calmed him, helped him to remember where he was and go back to sleep. Lieta had them wake before dawn the next day, and by the time they left after breakfast there was just enough light to see the trees.

"The sooner we leave Syvyar territory, the better," was all she said when they started off.

John looked up at Ronon. "Did they see anything? Hear anything?"

Ronon shook his head. "No. Doesn't mean something isn't out there."

That was usually Ronon's subtle way of saying they were being watched. John could feel it himself like a weight between his shoulder blades that drew his gaze deep into the forest and kept it there. The trees were endless, like staring into the darkness hoping to see some shape or motion that would break the monotony. That break came when they stopped to eat and the children would run wild, shrieking with laughter.

The next day they didn't even have that luxury. The silence was thicker, constant, and the children subdued. There was a smell in the air that came and went on the wind, one that made John's flesh try to crawl off his bones. It was putrid, sharp, killing his appetite so that he barely ate. Teyla was the first to notice since she was the one always trying to coax him into eating more. The farther they traveled, the stronger the smell became, and it made John's hunger short lived.

"Lieta," Teyla asked during their evening meal. "Where is that smell coming from?"

Lieta was ladling stew into bowls and handing them out. "It would be better if I didn't tell you. It's... hard to explain, and now isn't the time."

"I think it's pretty damn obvious what it is," John spat, pushing his half-eaten bowl away. "The question is, why are we moving toward it?"

Lieta paused in her motions. "Because the Syvyar move away from it."

That night, when they slept, John dreamed a different dream. Bodies, great hills of them, his own topping the pile. He could hear the moans, wails, and pleads of the ones not dead yet, so he crawled. He crawled to find them. He'd never intended to get away, not alone, not without the ones crying for help. But their voices trickled away into perfect silence. John tumbled down the hill, jutting bones bruising his already abused body. He hit the ground hard, cried out in pain, and rolled onto his stomach to crawl away.

Hands grabbed him; bony, claw-like, digging into his ankles, calves, thighs, pulling him back toward the hill, into the base where the long-dead had already rotted away. He wouldn't be found there. He would rot, forever, drowning in the stench of blood and old skin. John screamed, clawing at the ground that had become viscous. He shrieked, tore, thrashed, wild as a sick animal. He wouldn't be trapped. He'd promised himself he wouldn't. Not again.

Slender arms wrapped around his chest from the front, solid arms from around his back, tightening when he tried to push away.

"John! John! Wake up, please!"

John snapped his eyes open, gasping in air until his lungs felt ready to rip, sucking in enough oxygen to feed the blood tearing through his veins pumped by his viciously thrashing heart. He shook, sobbed, and sagged into Teyla's and Ronon's restraining embrace.

"It is all right, Ronon," Teyla said. The Satedan's arms slid away leaving Teyla the one keeping John upright.

Sheppard's chest stuttered with each heaving inhale. "I don't know if I can do this." He was alarmed by how easy it was to admit that. It made him feel like something less than what he was, like a coward. But truths were usually harsh like that.

"Then we will help you," Teyla said. She lowered him back to the ground and pulled the blanket up to his shoulders. He closed his eyes, squeezing them. He hated himself so bad. He had become more than useless, he had become a liability. If he freaked, refused to go on, it was going to put the rest of his team, and Lieta and her family, in danger.

He could be a coward all he wanted, he just couldn't afford to be afraid.

-----------------------------

Rot poured into his mouth and nose, filling his lungs until he could barely breathe, coating his tongue until it was all he tasted. It forced him to close his eyes and eat fast to get enough food into him before the nausea began to boil.

And that was just breakfast. By lunch he could only handle a few bites of bread and swallows water. This was saying something. As much as Rodney griped and gagged, he still ate more than John.

When they started off again, about an hour in, give or take, Lieta slowed the lead wagon to a halt and just stood there.

Then she looked back. "Brace yourselves." Her oldest daughters tied blindfolds around the eyes of the younger children riding on the buckboards.

Rodney looked at the others. "What the hell does that mean?"

The wagons resumed trundling, skirting a tree with a skeleton hanging low on a thick branch by the wrists, a rotten wooden sign in messy foreign scrawl nailed to its breastbone.

------------------------------

Hollow bones clacked above the rumbling of the wagons muted by the soft earth and old moss. Remains hung from trees like primitive wind-chimes swaying in the smallest breeze: ribs, femurs, clavicles, ulnas, fingers... Sheppard didn't know all the names, but he knew each bone and where they belonged in the human body.

"They are to mark the trail," Lieta had said.

"To what?" Rodney had asked, but in a tone of a man asking just to hear his own voice. He didn't expect a verbal answer and Lieta didn't give one.

The marked path turned skirting the edge of a ravine. Teyla moved fast stepping in front of John, blocking it from sight. Too bad for her she wasn't tall enough. John didn't even have to stretch his neck to see the great heaps of bloodied remains choking the bottom. Bones picked clean of flesh, muscle and sinew leaving only scraps for the bugs to eat.

The bugs, thick clouds of them droning en mass until Sheppard's living bones vibrated. A low sound that filled the hollow spaces of his chest until he thought it was going to split open. They danced around his skin, trying to burrow into his ear and up his nose. They landed on the bare flesh of his face, hands and chest where the shirt hung low. His skin twitch, shuddering like the flesh of a skittish horse. He could feel them crawling through the wide collar onto his back, making for the old scabs fading into scars. John swatted at them, the slap of skin on skin cracking sharp through the air. But they kept coming, so he kept swatting, until he felt the sting of them biting the old wounds of his back. He startled, yelping, and threw himself slamming his back into the nearest tree, smashing them all.

"Whoa, Sheppard, easy." Rodney reached out with one hand as though ready to catch John if he fell, but uncertain about actually touching the man.

John pushed away from the tree, stumbling. Rodney did catch him, taking him gently by the arm until he was steady.

"Damn bugs," John rasped. He knew he wasn't fooling anyone. His hands were shaking; his whole body was shaking.

"It is all right, John," Teyla soothed.

"Maybe, uh," Rodney stammered. "Maybe... Maybe we could blindfold you, so you don't..."

"No!" John gasped. "No. No..." It would be worse – the smells, the sounds. It had never been about what he'd seen. "It's just... bugs." He smiled weakly. "I hate bugs."

Rodney's throat bobbed in a nervous swallow. "Yeah, sure."

John didn't flinch when Teyla placed her hand on his shoulder with her fingers touching his collarbone, and when Rodney moved in close, offering something to collide against in case he stumbled again. He'd expected to. The stench of death, insects, skin against skin... except it was warm skin, and warm skin was alive, just like the body crowding in close was alive. They continued on as though trudging through the mud: careful and slow, swatting at bugs drinking the sweat at their temples.

John startled his team by chuckling dryly. "It's quiet."

Rodney balked. "Uh-huh."

It was. No moans, groans, or pleads for help. Sheppard hadn't panicked until they'd stopped. He'd been terrified for their sakes and for his own, because he couldn't save them and he thought he was alone. The solitude had scared the hell out of him, as well as the prospect of being next.

Sheppard dared to stare into the river of bones. Crap, it was so damn different, all because it was quieter, even with the hum of the bugs. It made his gut clench in equal parts horror, anger, sorrow, pity and relief. At least these people had been dead before being dumped. Thinking that made him feel like he was justifying all this, except he wasn't. These people hadn't suffered. John and the ones wailing for mercy had, at least, been allowed to participate in a game of second-chances roulette. Some made it, most didn't, but at least the opportunity had been there.

John wasn't sure where this line of thought was going. Probably an attempt at the positive. But he wasn't going to kid himself; it sucked either way because no one should have to go through something like this, dead or alive.

Sheppard looked away. Not because he couldn't stand looking, there just wasn't anything more to see except for what was already there. He felt suddenly tired and was grateful for Rodney's proximity, providing something to lean up against.

He glanced up at the ones ahead, looking away from the ravine, except for an ashen-faced Corla until her mother grabbed her by the jaw and forced her head to turn. The girl suddenly lurched the side, doubling over and heaving.

"John?" Teyla said.

Sheppard blinked, pulling in a quiet breath. "I'll be alright."

--------------------------------

"It is where the Syvyar dispose of all remains. They do not go anywhere near it since they believe the smell deters their prey," Lieta explained. Night had come by the time they left the ravine behind. They kept going, just a little further, then set up camp. Lieta was now dishing up stew and passing out the bowls.

"So we do the opposite," Ronon said. "Smart." He didn't even use a spoon, just tipped the bowl like a cup.

They were up-wind of the stench but it still lingered like old perfume. John managed a few bites of broth before calling it quits. The smell was still loitering in his nose, his mouth, every time he breathed out, and his stomach hadn't settled since he first caught wind of the rot. He could still hear bone wind-chimes.

Teyla's hand touched lightly against his back. "John, you really need to eat more."

He handed the bowl to her. "Tell me that after we put ten miles between us and this place." Sheppard stared out over the fire at Lieta's silent and ashen-faced older children, and the skittish younger children. He wasn't the only one having problems eating. Corla was huddled against a wagon-wheel, stirring her stew without bringing any to her mouth. She must have sensed she was being watched when she looked up to meet Sheppard's gaze, only to avert her eyes abruptly to the ground. Even in the weak light John could see the color of her face darken from pale to pale green and she set her bowl aside, pushing it away.

"I think she gets it, now," Ronon said. Nothing ever got past the Satedan.

Teyla was the last to finish eating. They then curled up against each other, buried under blankets, and slept.

-----------------------------

John dreamed of bodies, great mountains of broken, shrunken flesh and misaligned bones. He stood on the very top, so light he might as well be insubstantial. He was king of the mountain, except he didn't want to be. But if he moved, they would feel it. They would grab him, pull him down with them. He could never run fast enough, far enough. They would always bring him back, filling his lungs and mouth with death until he suffocated.

A hand snaked across his foot.

John awoke, jackknifing upright with a gasp to a misty gray morning barely skirting the edges of sunrise. He concentrated on his breathing, pulling in lung-fulls against the need for rapid panting to keep up with his jackhammering heart.

He stopped breathing all together when he saw Death standing within the mist; black-clad but without his scythe and still as the surrounding trees. He stood profile with his face turned away and obscured except for a sliver of pale flesh. John just stared until his heart stuttered, reminding him to breathe. He inhaled quietly, slowly, which his lungs weren't happy about.

He didn't know why. Much of what he did these days didn't hold much rhyme or reason. Definitely no sanity and common sense. If that was really Death, then John was pissed that he was here. If this was a dream, all the more better. If not, then he'd happily give up his sanity after he let the bastard know what it was like to taste corpses on the air.

John wasn't going back to the charnal pit.

He reached beneath the folded blanket acting as his pillow and slipped the knife out, tucking it up into his sleeve, hilt down wrapped in his grip. He rose, trembling but fluid, and crept toward Death standing at the edge of the woods.

Death turned.

No, not Death. Friend of death, maybe. Neither male nor female, John couldn't tell. The threads of brown hair came to their waist, bordering a face so sunken it could have been mistaken for a skull at a distance. Gray eyes floated in hollow sockets surrounded by waxy skin that didn't look real. It was dressed in a black robe with a black cowl.

The Syvyar stared at John and John stared at the Syvyar, not much difference between them except that his hair was short, and he didn't eat people. Sheppard pulled the knife from his sleeve to let the Syvyar see it, because if it wanted a fight, John would give it one. He wasn't going back to the charnal pits. _Any_ charnal pit.

Instead of meeting the challenge by stepping forward, the Syvayr stepped back. It didn't want to play and John didn't blame it. He wasn't exactly appetizing; no meat beneath his flesh, his bones probably not even worth being made into soup, or his skin into whatever they use the skin for.

The silence was thick, suffocating, not even broken by the muffled thump of John's pounding heart; then it was shattered by the hiss and crunch of something being dragged across the ground. Both turned their head to see another Syvyar hauling something – someone – but Sheppard couldn't see who with a bag covering their head. John didn't waste time on thinking. He charged forward, plowing into the Syvyar, grabbing it by the back of the cowl and pressing the knife-edge to its throat. He shoved the thing into motion with his knee, bringing it and him in close to the second Syvyar.

John whistled sharply. The second Syvyar's head snapped up an around, the face as genderless as the first's, except it had pale blond hair.

"I suggest you leave the meat unless you don't care if your population shrinks," John hissed. He honestly hope it cared.

The second Syvyar regarded him without any outward emotion, the first didn't even squirm. This was messed up in too many ways for John to feel confident about, but he was good at putting on false fronts. Fear couldn't be dismissed or ignored, only subdued.

Right now John was terrified, which was good, pumping his diminished body full of enough adrenaline to forget that it was weak.

"Come on, pal, play nice. You give me what you have, I give you what I have. I think that's a pretty decent trade. Well, decent for me. You'll go hungry, but at least you'll still have you're hunting partner here."

The second Syvyar blinked owlishly. John pressed the knife in closer to Syvyar one's throat, nicking skin. "Hand the body over, _now_."

Past torment had turned Sheppard's body hypersensitive. His stomach recoiled when he felt the sharp tip of an elbow brush lightly across it. His attention flickered to his hostage, just in time to see gray light flash off the tarnished metal of a knife being angled toward his gut. John reacted on instinct, pulling his knife across the Syvyar's throat then releasing the body to crumple in a heap of black cloth on the ground.

John looked from the corpse to the second Syvyar, the only sound his own heavy breathing and blood dripping from the knife patting on the ground like rain. They were back to staring, waiting. The Syvyar betrayed nothing in terms of emotions. Maybe they no longer felt anything, reduced to mere animals, kill or be killed. It could also be a hunting tactic. With no emotions to judge by, John didn't know what to expect.

Lieta said they hunted in packs.

John heard the whisper of cloth over soil. He whirled around at the same time the air exploded with the crack of rifle fire, twice. The Syvyar that had been coming up behind him crumpled. John peered over his shoulder at the second now sprawled on the ground. The oldest girl came bounding like a deer up to the trust-up body. She dropped to her knees, slinging the rifle over her shoulder before pulling the hood from Corla's unmoving head. She began patting the girl's face, speaking softly, urging her to awake. Corla was pale in a way that she could have been mistaken for dead, then she groaned and rolled her head to the side.

"I owe you a debt, Mr. Sheppard."

John looked over to see Lieta approaching more slowly, her rifle still in hand. "Rather reckless way to go about things, but effective." She stopped next to him and looked him over. "What possessed you to approach the Syvyar?"

John wanted to say complete lack of sanity. Instead, he shrugged. "Thought it was something else." He jerked his chin toward Corla. "Will she be all right?"

Lieta looked toward her daughter who was struggling to sit up. " Yes. The Syvyar merely knocked her out. They wanted her alive." She looked back at John. "Fresher that way."

John grimaced in disgust. His arms and legs started to tremble as the adrenaline melted from his body. He turned and dragged his weary frame back to his team, all awake and on their feet, at the ready.

"What was that all about?" Rodney babbled. "What happened?"

John tossed the knife to the ground and dropped onto his bedding. "I don't want to dream anymore." He lay down, wrapping the blanket around his shivering shoulders, but did not sleep.

---------------------

TBC...


	5. Chapter 5

A/N: Finally, right? But some bad news; the next installment may take even longer as I'll be concentrating on another story, one I've been promising for some time (now that I finally have it figured out. Eeesh!)

Ch. 5

The Colonel's appetite improved with the distance gained between them and the ravine of corpses, the stench of death pushed down-wind. When Sheppard ate, it wasn't much, but it was better than nothing. Teyla had been taught in difficult ways to appreciate what she had and what she could get. If John could only stomach three bites of stew and two bites of bread, so be it for now. She would worry if things did not improve. She would be afraid if they degenerated to no bites at all.

McKay, however, was never satisfied and thought disparaging remarks would provoke Sheppard into eating more. John handled the comments as he always did, with comments of his own, but there came words said that Teyla knew were hurting him.

"Ronon can pick you up one handed. Maybe we should stick you in one of the satchels and have him carry you around like that."

John nudged the bowl away from himself as though the mere sight of it made him ill. "I actually wouldn't mind doing that. Too bad I'm too tall."

Rodney rolled his eyes. "Oh come on, Colonel, you were eating way more than that before we passed that damn ravine. Are you telling me you're letting a few flashbacks kick your ass?"

"I just don't feel good, all right?"

"Ronon's going to end up carrying you again."

Sheppard's shoulders sagged as though being pulled by unseen weights. "I just need a little time, McKay."

Rodney shoveled a spoonful of stew into his mouth and talked around it. " We don't have a little time. You don't eat then you lose strength, and if you lose strength then you'll be slowing us down and..."

"McKay!" Ronon snarled.

Rodney opened his mouth, ready to defend his words, when it finally hit him what he had just said and his face fell. "Oh. No, no, no, no that's not what I meant. I meant, uh... I meant..."

John was perfectly still for several heartbeats when he snapped from whatever fugue he was in and grabbed the bowl. He stared into it, frantic, probably arguing with himself that he could handle a sip and wouldn't puke. Green crept onto his pale face until he finally dropped the bowl, pushed to his feet, and stalked away.

Teyla made to follow him when she heard Rodney scrabbling to his feet. "I'll talk to him, let me talk to him!"

She stopped, letting Rodney pass her, but still followed. It was Rodney's place to make amends, but there were days when he managed it and days when he sometimes made things worse. He had gotten better at it over the years, but between the fluster of worry and his own fragile state of mind, it was a higher possibility that he could make things worse for both John and himself.

John was pacing in stiff agitation in the darkness on the other side of one of the wagons. Teyla hung back standing where she could both see and hear. The two men were silhouettes outlined in the flickering amber light of the fires. Rodney reached out with the intent to grab Sheppard's arm and stop his pacing, only to have John yank his arm out of reach.

"Sheppard," McKay sighed. "Look, I'm sorry. It was a slip of the tongue, all right? You haven't been slowing us down, I swear. I was just saying that stuff to be saying that stuff."

John nodded but kept pacing. "I know Rodney. Your ineptitude at tact is kind of your biggest personality feature."

Rodney was silent, then crossed his arms over his chest. "Since I opened my big mouth first, I'll let that slide."

John came to an abrupt halt in front of McKay and gestured sharply, one-handed. "But it's gotta stop, just for now. I'm trying, Rodney, I swear to you I'm trying. But I can still smell that damn place. Hell, I can still _taste _it. You don't understand how hard it is, you don't. I so much as see a chunk of meat in that stew out of the corner of my eye and it... it makes me think about things. So you're right, the flashbacks are kicking my ass. But it doesn't last. It didn't before and it won't now. But I... it... it's hard. And if I push myself it'll make things worse."

Rodney's arms slid apart to hang loose at his sides. "I'm sorry. I didn't know. Well, I kind of figured as much but... but you're always good at – you know – getting over things fast. Not completely over, of course, but enough to keep going."

It was John who folded his arms next, crossing them tight over his chest as though he were cold, or trying to hold himself together. It was a timid and vulnerable posture that didn't suit him. "I am still going. I'm just being slow about it."

Rodney nodded then clapped Sheppard on the shoulder blade. "Glad to here it. Now let's get back to the fire before we freeze our butts off. And I won't make you eat more. But if you stop eating all together I swear I'm going to shove food down your skinny throat."

John's breathing stuttered from the cold. "F-fair enough."

Teyla hurried back to the fire before them, giving Ronon a reassuring nod that things had been settled between the two men. The Satedan nodded back.

------------------------

Teyla was not sure how Lieta knew they were beyond Syvyar territory, but she knew and made it known the day she announced it was time for them to part ways.

"I filled your bags with extra rations," she said as she loaded the last of her supplies onto the wagon. "In gratitude for saving my daughter's life. I wish there was no need for us to part, but my family and I must take a path that will lead us far from the ring. Now that we are out of Syvyar territory, all you need worry about is thieves and slavers. Stay off the road and you should be fine."

After closing up the wagon, she went to each team member, clasping their wrist between both her hands. "Safe journey to you all. May you find your journey's end."

"Same for you," John replied.

Lieta bowed her head. When she moved away to her spot in front of the lead wagon, Corla stepped in, fingering the strap of her rifle nervously. Her eyes flickered to and from Sheppard.

"I never thanked you for saving me, Mr. Sheppard," she reluctantly stammered. "And... and I need to say I'm sorry... for what I did to you. It wasn't right." She shook her head, bottom lip trembling. "Wasn't right at all." A tear slid down her cheek.

John brushed it away with his thumb. "I survived. Don't worry about it. And, uh," he pointed at her noise. "Sorry for what I did."

Corla twitched a nervous, uncertain smile. "Served me right, Mr. Sheppard." She then bowed her head and hurried to join her mother. Lieta shouted the call to get moving and the wagons started trundling over the uneven ground. The team turned, starting their trek the other way.

"I think I'm actually going to miss them," Rodney said. "It was nice eating something else besides bread and alien cheese."

"It was nice having others to help watch our backs," said Ronon.

"It was nice having someone to trust," said Teyla.

John nodded. "It was nice."

Ronon took the lead since he always knew which way they needed to go. The weather was dry, the chill freezing the moss under their feet that crunched dusting their boots with frost. Though Sheppard had not eaten as much as he should have, he managed to go the whole day until twilight without stumbling. Teyla was certain he was just trying to prove a point. He was able to avoid tripping but his shoulders had started to stoop around midday and his chest heaved with labored breaths.

Ronon found them a place to camp: a hollow in the wall of a ravine with half-rotted fallen trees for a ceiling. They huddled together adjusting the blankets to form a single blanket closing them in together. Teyla was in the middle with John and Ronon beside her, her arms pressed against both men's ribcage; Sheppard's expanding wide with heavy breaths and Ronon's gentle in its rise and fall. The Satedan had changed in body. It was not blatantly obvious to the eye like with John, but Teyla could feel bone pressing sharper against the taller man's skin. It was visible on Rodney only to those who knew him. He was no longer so round. Teyla had to wonder what she looked like to these men, her friends. She had to be different because she felt different, like she was wearing another's skin that did not fit her.

Teyla tilted her head back against the soft wall of dirt. The earthy smell summoned dreams out of memories, of tearing into the dirt with her bare hands and a trowel. Women not being used for pleasure were supposed to work in the fields. Teyla gladly preferred it, but the hierarchy that existed among the women made it precarious. Most of them _wanted_ to be used for pleasure. There were 'perks' to it, such as better food, clothes, and places to sleep. The desire for these perks created rivalries between the more favored women, and the less favored took sides so as to catch the crumbs of the benefits (scraps of cloth the favored women did not care for, for example). A disgusting society if one could even call it a society. Teyla would have easily kept her back turned to all of it, but the master had had his eye on her and the more favored women had known it.

The rounded shadow of Magala encompassed Teyla's smaller form. Teyla looked up from where she was digging, squinting against the orange halo that outlined the larger woman. It was a brief glance, then Teyla's gaze was back on the ground as she resumed her pruning.

"Is there something you want, Magala?"

The woman said nothing. The wind that made the stalks bend fluttered the loose crimson scarves and veils. Jewel-encrusted chains chimed and sparkled, blinding Teyla.

Teyla did not have to see the sneer on the painted lips to know that it was there. "The _master_ has inquired of you. The master always inquires after you."

"Because the master has yet to take me and never will." She looked up at the woman. "Why do you fear this will happen? I want nothing to do with the master's favor."

Magala kicked dirt into Teyla's face. "You are a little idiot. I am surprised the master keeps you around, even after the many times you tried to kill him."

Teyla's lips twitched as she fought back a smirk. She wouldn't call landing the master flat on his back killing him, more like teaching him a lesson.

"He is a stubborn man," Teyla said.

Magala kicked more dirt.

"Leave Teyla alone."

The bigger woman's condescending gaze landed on Janee's slight, cringing form. The girl was barely out of her teens, dark hair, dark-eyed and thin as to be shapeless. She followed Teyla around because Teyla had yet to ever hurt her. It seemed the girl was becoming influenced. She had never attempted to stick up for anyone, let alone herself, until making friends with Teyla.

The girl's eyes darted back to her work. Too late. Once Magala was angered, she did not stop until that anger was satisfied. She walked swiftly up to Janee and gave her a hard kick to the side. Janee yelped and toppled, then scrabbled away in a cower from the larger woman. Teyla was on her feet immediately, stalking up to Magala. Magala sensed her and turned with only inches between them. The big woman's smile prodded Teyla's temper until her blood burned her veins.

"Are you going to attack me, Teyla?" Magala simpered. She grabbed Teyla's shoulder, squeezing with her fingers curled, pressing into the still stinging cut on her shoulder blade. The woman's eyes glowed with malicious glee. "Will you? I do not think the master will be happy with you."

Teyla awoke with a small gasp, exchanging the dark field of belaya wheat for the ravine wall with rock and roots protruding like bone, pressing heat for scraping cold, blinding sunlight for blue-morning twilight. Teyla exhaled a long breath in a stream of mist that curled until it vanished. She could hear Rodney's snoring, feel Ronon's vibrating breaths, and Sheppard's shivering. She slid her arm behind John's neck and across his bony shoulders to pull him in closer. This wasn't the first time she had awoke before him, it was just a rarity. When it did happen, she always made sure to establish physical contact before the dreams started tormenting him.

Teyla fell back asleep.

They all woke at dawn when the morning was more gold and gray than blue. The crisp air was hard to breathe and formed a thin dusting of frost on the men's stubble. They made sure to remain in a huddle, much like their configuration when sleeping, with Teyla and John in the middle. They touched arm to arm and Rodney muttered something about lions and tigers and bears. Other than that, little was said. Breathing had become somewhat of a commodity.

They traveled well into the night until Ronon managed to find them some shelter within a tangle of bare shrubs. It didn't accumulate as much warmth as a hollow or den, but it kept most of the wind off them. They were chest to back, curled up so tight beneath the blankets that Teyla knew they would hurt in the morning. Sheppard's backbone pressed into her sternum and she was sure hers was doing the same to Rodney's chest. She could feel the physicist's tension at her proximity, touch never a comfortable issue with him.

Warmth eventually gathered and Teyla slipped into sleep.

Janee peeked shyly over Teyla's shoulder at the master passing between the bunks of the women's bungalow. Tall, lean, with mahogany hair swept perfectly back into a tail. The master's features were square and angular, full of sharp juts at his cheekbones and chin. It was as though his skin had been pulled tightly over the bones. It seemed fake to her, his flesh like wax and his blue eyes bright and glassy. He reminded Teyla of the dolls Charin used to make with the clay heads and painted faces, the details fine but nothing more than a caricature of real humanity. It was what passed as beauty on this world. Janee told her that a plant is applied to the skin that burns off layers, and another plant ingested that brightens the eyes.

The master passed Magala and her coy smile melted into a bitter, twisted frown. The master paused before Teyla, lingering, studying her. Teyla cast her eyes to the floor. She had tried staring back in defiance, once, but the master seemed to prefer it. "He likes a challenge," some of the women had whispered. "But he will kill you if you continue to prolong it." Teyla had not bathed in days and had purposefully smeared dirt on her face. She refused to be desirable in any way.

"You."

Teyla looked up in horror only to hear a timid squeak behind her. Janee stepped out from hiding, back curved and shoulders hunched in a cringe. The young girl started trembling. The master smiled, his face kind but his eyes blank and indifferent. He didn't care about desirable, he just wanted a warm body to lie with. Teyla knew because Janee had never been picked before, and girls like her were given the same bored interest whenever taken. Janee shot a quick, frightened glance to Teyla, a flicker of a look that begged for help only to fall into resignation, knowing that begging does no good.

This angered Teyla. Janee had found hope in the fact that she had never been chosen so many times previous. The Athosian woman stiffened in rage and stepped forward with no plan, just the single-minded intent of pulling Janee away.

The master turned suddenly, whipping out the bludgeon used to beat the servants that did not please him right away, pressing the round end to her throat.

"Are you still in need of another lesson, Miss Emmagen?"

Teyla swallowed, stomach clenching. She had had many lessons, so many, too many. She didn't know if she could take another. But Janee, she's just a child, a frightened child...

"Teyla." Janee's voice was tight and strained with terror. "Don't." Her eyes pleaded for Teyla, now. Indecision froze Teyla in place, long after the master and Janee had gone.

Teyla will find Janee in morning, huddled half-naked in the corner with torn and stained rags pressed to her, exposed skin white and bruised.

Teyla snapped awake with a ragged inhale of biting air. The master had not ravaged Janee. The women had said he is more gentle than that, but they tend to exaggerate in hopes it'll make them the favored. It was one of the master's soldiers, probably more. Unless escorted back by the master himself, all women are fair game. Most submit, some do not, and it's easy to tell them apart."

Teyla curled her fist, digging her fingers into the frozen soil. She had felt loathing toward all men that day, and felt it again, now, like a stinging burn in her belly.

"Teyla?"

Teyla rolled over to come face to face with John.

"You okay?"

The loathing fled. It was so easy to hate in the absence of compassion. But here was compassion in the form of concern pouring in a deluge from Sheppard's sunken eyes. His emaciated frame was compacted into a tight ball convulsing with shivers, yet his only thought was whether she was alright. Teyla almost laughed, while at the same time wanted to cry. John, with his protruding bones, translucent skin as thin as parchment and smeared with dirt, and clothes that barely managed to stay on his body, was far more beautiful than the master could ever even hope to be.

Teyla smiled at him. "I am fine."

He narrowed his eyes. "You sure?"

"Quite."

He stared at her, studying her, but it was still early and John was exhausted from their longer trek. He struggled but sleep eventually claimed him. Teyla watched him, rediscovering contentment enough to relax. She reached out and stroked his cool cheek, then shivered pulling the blankets tight over her shoulder then doing the same for John. When she curved her back with the intent of pressing into Rodney's warmer bulk, she met only empty air. She lifted her head, searching their little nest.

Both McKay and Ronon were gone. Her heart pounded and her mind spun with the recollection earth people referred to as _deja vu_.

"Rodney?" she breathed, wanting to call out but keeping her voice level out of caution. "Ronon?"

She jumped when the bushes rattled and snapped, then relaxed when Rodney finally crawled the rest of the way through. He was breathless, his cheeks flushed and his eyes wide in panic.

"We've got a problem," he gasped. "I don't know what and I don't know how but something managed to sneak in and make off with all the food."

Teyla bolted upright. "All of it?"

Rodney nodded, panting in sharp, stuttering gulps. "All of it, even the stuff in the jars. Ronon thinks it was animals, small ones, like rats or something. He's trying to track them to see if they left anything behind. We found three unbroken jars and that's it."

An unseen fist closed around Teyla's heart. "Three." She shook her head in denial. "No, that is not enough..."

"I know." Rodney's voice was thick. "But it's better than nothing, right? And – and Ronon could hunt or something. I'm pretty sure whatever took our food is edible. They eat our stuff so we eat them. It's only fair..."

Teyla reached out placing a hand on either side of Rodney's face. Her own panic was controlled fear compared to Rodney's, and his rapid breathing was going to make him pass out. "Yes, Rodney, Ronon can hunt, and not all the food may have been taken. You need to calm down and focus on breathing. Can you do that? In and out, nice and slow."

Rodney nodded staccato and pulled in shuddering breaths that were an improvement to the suffocating gasps of earlier. Teyla held his gaze forcing a mask of calm onto her face while inside she wanted to sob.

No food. Days away from the stargate with no food, in winter when most animals remain hidden in their holes. Teyla could manage without food for a few days, it wouldn't be the first time. Ronon definitely, his time as a runner had given him that advantage. Sheppard was adept at ignoring his appetite but he could not afford to remain hungry. His body barely had reserves even with food. Rodney would not last without food with his condition.

Hunger, even a few days of it, was not an option.

"Rodney, stay with John. I will help Ronon find some of the food."

She didn't wait for a reply when she scurried out from under the bushes. Ronon was the best at tracking but Teyla was no novice at it. She found Ronon still following the small tracks of the animal raiders with frenetic focus, head turning and ropes of hair whipping. He would crouch and paw through dirt, loam and needles, reaching into to holes without compunction. He finally unearthed a jar and tossed it to Teyla.

"I don't know how it happened," Ronon said. "I didn't even hear them. I should have been able to hear them."

Teyla shook her head. "We know nothing of these creatures. It may be their way never to be caught."

Ronon gave up digging to slam his fist into the dirt. "I should have kept watch! They're animals! Not wraith, not men. _Animals!" _He looked up at her with blazing eyes sparking between fury and fear. "They took it all in one night. We barely have anything left."

Teyla crouched beside him and placed her hand on his shoulder. "But we still have some. We will find more food, Ronon. Until then, we will simply make what we have last." She hoped it sounded positive rather than coming across as having no other choice. They did not have a choice, but Teyla did not want Ronon to have to think about that. He would pretend there was no guilt, yet it would be there, festering, pushing him toward doing something that could cost him in hopes of rectifying what he felt was his doing.

In a situation like this, guilt was universal. They all could have done something, taken notice, woken up sooner. Ronon's time as a runner did not make him an exception to anything, because even as a runner he had probably made mistakes he had nearly paid for with his life. But he had lived, learned, and moved on. He needed to do that now.

Teyla helped him dig through the dirt, uncovering rodent-sized holes then partially chewed bags still retaining their contents, or small glass jars that had not been broken. It was scraps compared to what they had had, but it would do until more food could be gained. They gathered what they scrounged and headed back to their little camp. Sheppard was awake and sitting up wrapped in a blanket when they crawled beneath the shrubs.

"Find anything?" he asked.

Teyla and Ronon set what they scavenged on the ground: about eight jars, five small bags of dried meat, and one crust of bread still wrapped in its cloth. They stored all of it into one satchel.

"Better than nothing," Sheppard said. "We'll have to ration like crazy."

"And hope not everything hibernates," Rodney added. His expression was scared but he was otherwise calm. Rodney's hypoglycemia was not paranoid diatribe such as his 'sun-sensitive skin' and a body 'prone to infection'. They had all come to see what happened when Rodney did not get enough to eat and it was frightening.

"I've noticed fresh animals tracks," Ronon said. "They're out there and I can find them."

John gave them a curt nod. "Good, then we have a plan. We should head out now, cover as much ground as possible. Maybe we can make what we have last until the gate."

As the earth saying went, "it was easier said than done." They each had a few bites of dried meat for breakfast then set off while the day was still brand new. Motion warmed their muscles and loosened their limbs, but the cold made them tense and kept the aches alive. That same cold also kept the forest quiet except for the smaller branches creaking under the wind's push.

The number of larger tress grew, the moss, needles, and dead leaves hiding twisted roots and shallow dips. It made it hard to tell the difference between stumbling over obstacles and stumbling out of exhaustion. They rested little and ate on the go, gnawing more dried meat. They were all pushing themselves, all fueled by the same urgency to make it to the gate while their supplies lasted. Sheppard was a visual testament to it with his heavy breathing, sagging shoulders, and sweat slicking his face and dripping from his jaw. He had taken up altering between leaning on Ronon or leaning on Rodney just to stay upright.

Their next camp was another hollow, this one in a small hill beneath the massive roots of a tree with dead vines and lichen hanging like a curtain hiding the entrance. The moment they entered was the moment Sheppard finally collapsed onto his side in a heap, flanks pulsating in rasping breaths. He was so exhausted he needed help just to lift his head and take a little water. It took Teyla patting his face, shaking his shoulder, and badgering him relentlessly until he finally ate the small mouthful of bread she kept trying to push past his lips. After that, she let him sleep, curling up next to him with her back against his chest, feeling the rapid thumping of his heart finally begin to slow. Ronon took the spot in front of her and Rodney squirmed beneath the blankets behind Sheppard.

It was painful trying to stay awake. "We should not travel like that again," Teyla slurred.

"I concur," Rodney mumbled.

Ronon just nodded.

The next day, they slept in, just a little to regain what they had lost the previous day. They took more breaks when they started off again, part out of choice and part because they had too. The land was more rocky, hilly, with ravines, dells, and little cliffs no higher than five feet. It offered more places to camp, but forced them to pick their way carefully, not just because of hidden obstacles but because they were now faced with possible dead-ends – ravines with high walls, or hills too steep or too rocky to scale.

"I'm starting to get the feeling this planet _really_ doesn't like us," Rodney said, trying to balance on a small boulder before taking the leap onto the next one to avoid having to wade through the arctic river gurgling around the rocks.

"Maybe we pissed it off..." John replied, breathless, lying flat on his back on the other side, "in another life or... reality."

Rodney hopped onto the next rock, his arms pinwheeling. "Maybe there really is a God and he's out to get us."

John lifted his head and glared. "Seeing as how you don't believe in a supreme being, you're not entitled to blaming one."

Rodney planted his hands on his hips in an indignant pout. "Oh, I'm sorry, colonel, did I offend your little archaic beliefs?"

"Maybe." Sheppard dropped his head back to the ground. "I find it pointless to get mad at God." He held up a single finger. "Number one, because it's kind of hypocritical to expect God's help immediately after blaming Him for everything wrong in the world. And number two, as a buddy once told me, it's not God's fault that people are butt-heads. They do that to themselves. And so far it's been people making us miserable so... you do the math."

Rodney took the final leap onto shore. "People suck."

"Precisely."

Teyla landed with more grace than Rodney, her feet impacting the frozen soil with a light thud. "But we have come upon many who do not _suck._"

"Okay, most people suck," Rodney amended. He reached out a hand and hauled Sheppard back to his feet. "Planets, too."

Perhaps the planet decided to prove Rodney wrong, or this was simply a good day. Ronon was able to locate a cave, cramped but small enough to help retain their collective warmth. The next morning Rodney's hands were shaking and not from the cold. For the first time ever since coming to know him, Rodney refused the extra food Teyla and John tried to force on him.

"Rodney, just eat the damn bread before I shove it down your throat!" Sheppard barked, shoving the bread into Rodney's hands.

Rodney tore off a large bite and stuffed it into his mouth, spraying crumbs with each heaving, irritated breath. " 'Appy?"

"Not until you eat more," John said. Rodney tore off another chunk and tossed the palm-sized remainder to Sheppard. The scientist's hands had stopped shaking by the time they set off.

Sheppard's legs were another matter. They had only been walking for less than a half-hour and he was already leaning up against Ronon, and with every step his legs shook, trying to buckle.

Even with their rationing, the food whittled away fast, forcing them to eat less. Ronon attempted to hunt but the increasing cold must have forced the animals into hiding. He could not even find tracks, and most burrow were either too narrow or too deep to reach into.

Teyla's own body trembled, her stomach gnawing itself trying to close the yawning pit where food was supposed to go. Ronon was breathing more heavily, stumbling, his body stooped. When they next slept within another copse of shrubs, it was a heavy sleep they could barely pull themselves from, doing nothing to rid them of their exhaustion from the other day. The extra bites of salted meat did not stop Rodney's hands from shaking. Ronon had to keep Sheppard upright with an arm around his waist and a thin arm pulled across his shoulders.

That night, they made camp in the small alcove formed by the curved trunk of a tree. Teyla forced extra food on Rodney, then attempted to rouse Sheppard for the same, except he wouldn't wake. Teyla looked at Ronon, terrified.

Ronon didn't meet her gaze. His own was fixed on Sheppard sprawled boneless and unconscious on the cold ground beneath a blanket. "I may have to start carrying him again," he said. Fear flickered quick as lightning in the Satedan's eyes. Sheppard looked the same as he had the day they'd found him. All that work to regain his strength, his energy, giving him back the means to make it on his own, was being wiped clean faster than it had been established. Teyla didn't think it was possible for John to get any thinner, but whatever pounds he managed to gain had been stripped from him, turning him sickly and frail.

And Rodney, also passed out leaning with his back against the tree, was taking on similarities to a fresh corpse: alabaster white skin, sunken cheeks, and bruised looking eyes. Ronon shifted over to the scientist and gently moved him onto the ground next to Sheppard, covering him. The taller man tilted his head toward the two sleeping men. "Lay down, get some rest." The same fear for Sheppard and Rodney flickered in his gaze for her.

Teyla felt suddenly self-conscious and pulled her coat tighter over her sharp shoulders. She curled up beneath the blankets next to John with Ronon next to her, and felt the Satedan's bones dig sharply into her arm.

The next day, Sheppard tried to walk on his own. It took both Rodney and Ronon to help keep him upright. Teyla was sure Ronon's reasons for not carrying Sheppard were part for the man's dignity, but mostly because he was lacking the strength to. The Satedan had attempted hunting again, expending much of his energy chasing down a rodent that eventually got away from him.

They trudged sluggishly in a hungry haze around giant trees, stepping heavily over massive, gnarled roots. Suddenly, Ronon stopped, lifting his head and sniffing the air. Rodney and Teyla looked up at him in panic.

"What?" Rodney's voice cracked.

"Fire," Ronon said.

McKay stiffened. "Forest fire? Ah, crap, that's all we need..."

"Camp fire," Ronon interjected. "And something cooking. This way!" He almost yanked John from Rodney's hold when he took off at a lope. Teyla and Rodney had to run to keep up, and Sheppard was practically being dragged.

Ronon finally stopped to crouch behind a small tangle of shrubs, ducking his head to peer through the gaps, Rodney doing the same. Teyla joined them, parting the branches enough to see a large, enclosed wagon painted in bright, festive colors. A tall, middle-aged man with sand-colored and curly hair coming past his ears sat eased back in a wooden chair, his feet propped up on a rock in front of a fire where a black pot hung from a spit. His jacket and the vest beneath were as brightly chromatic as the wagon, with a plain white shirt beneath that, black trousers, and glossy black boots. He had one hand resting on his potbelly and another stirring the fire with a stick. A thin woman in a violet skirt with a red blouse bustled at a small table chopping vegetables, a young girl no older than twelve helping her.

"So," Rodney whispered, "anyone got any problems with begging?"

"I'd prefer taking when they aren't looking," Ronon said. "They might be armed."

"You know," John said between pants, still trying to catch his breath. "A little... diplomacy... never hurts. We could ask... nice. Not really... begging."

"They may be willing to share if they know of our plight," said Teyla, and immediately formed a plan. "Ronon, you stay behind and keep watch. Rodney, take John and follow me."

She did not give the men time to ask questions or protest when she stood and started moving from around their concealment. She heard Rodney scrambling to help John up and follow. She entered the camp with her hands clasped and shoulders bowed in abject humility, slowing to let Rodney catch up with Sheppard in tow.

The man at the fire lifted his head and cocked an eye-brow, pulling his feet from the rock to sit leaning froward. "What have we here, then?" The woman and the girl stopped chopping to turn and regard the strangers in unconcealed fear. The woman's pale face was framed by strands of wispy brown hair that had escaped from the maroon cloth tied around her head.

Teyla's heart thudded. She had seen that look before, in Janee and the other more timid girl's of the master's harem, but mostly in Janee. The little girl scooted closer to her mother, hiding behind her skirts.

Teyla wrung her hands, pouring out the subservience by flicking her gaze to and from the ground. "We mean you no harm," she said. "We are merely passing through and wish no trouble. We were hoping... that is, we have lost many of our supplies. We have not had any real food for days and we... we were hoping... if you would not mind... if you had any food that you could spare..."

The man grinned, dimpling his cheeks that were red from the cold. "Been reduced to begging, have you?" He sprawled back in his chair, shaking a finger at Teyla. "Didn't tie your food where critters couldn't get it. Must be new at this."

Teyla gaped for a moment. "Uh... No, we... we travel worlds. We did not know..."

The man held up a hand, forestalling her. "It's common sense, miss." He pushed off from the chair, rising and stretching with a small groan. "I'll not be wasting my food on incompetents, unless you're willing to barter."

Teyla glanced back at Rodney and Sheppard. McKay looked as confused and helpless as she felt, Sheppard wary and tired. She returned her gaze to the man who now stood with his hands on his hips and his expression mildly amused.

"We," Teyla began. "We have very little. Blankets, a few bags..."

"I've plenty of both," the man said.

"A... a service then?"

The man snorted. "Miss, no offense but you don't look like a lot up for doing me a service. Especially that one." He swung his hand in Sheppard's general direction.

"Per-perhaps," said the thin woman. The man didn't look at her, just lift an eyebrow and purse his lips. The woman wrung her hands until they were red. "Perhaps... we could spare a little something?" she winced. "It's just... the dark-haired one can barely stand, Ile. And you can see all his bones. The helping him looks mighty ill, and he's shaking so. We've got plenty. A bit of bread..."

Ile folded his arms and turned to his wife. The woman stammered, jaw working, then dropped her gaze and turned back to her cooking. Ile turned back to the team. "My wife is too soft and she exaggerates. We don't have plenty and I don't cater to beggars. Unless you have something to barter then just be on your way." He stepped up to Teyla, towering over her close enough for his pungent breath to puff hot on her face. "But, you know..." his voice lowered soft, deep. He lifted a lock of copper hair and let it slide between his fingers, "trade does not have to be limited to bags and blankets. I'm an open-minded man."

Teyla froze, caught between disgust and hesitation to react. For a moment, a fraction of a second, she considered it, honestly considered it, because physical or emotional, pain was pain and right now it was strong enough for her to be willing to do anything to make it end. Her friends were starving, dying in front of her, and she could not let that happen, could not watch them fade away. Sheppard would be first, or McKay. She just couldn't...

"Hey, get your damn hands off her!" Sheppard's cracked, slurring bark jolted Teyla from her own mind and she stepped back. Sheppard staggered on shaking legs, jabbing a quaking finger at Ile. "Take you damn food and shove it up your ass because you're not touching her."

Teyla realized with a start that John's shaking wasn't entirely out of fatigue. His eyes smoldered with a rage that, had he the strength, would have provoked him into knocking Ile flat with one blow. Because he didn't have the strength, Ile smirked and shoved Sheppard in the shoulder, driving pilot back. John would have fallen if Teyla had not caught his arm.

Ile snorted. "I admire your loyalty, friend, but you're in no fit state to be making demands. Now you'd better leave before I'm forced to make you leave." He ended the matter by turning away and dropping back into his chair, making his point when he pulled a weapon similar in shape to Ronon's blaster from his coat and setting it across his lap. Teyla backed away, tugging John with her.

They hurried back into the forest, beyond Ile's sight, where Ronon stood with his own blaster drawn and his face scowling darkly. "So much for diplomacy," he growled. "I say we do things the hard way."

"I'd be inclined to agree," John said, panting. "But this guy's at the top of his game and probably waiting for someone to make a move. And I doubt his gun has a stun setting."

"So we do nothing?" Ronon said.

John shrugged helplessly. "Pretty much. Maybe... maybe we'll come across someone else."

"I can take him."

"Maybe, but I'd rather we not take that chance."

"Sheppard..."

John closed his eyes wearily. "Please don't make me make it an order." Then opened them. "If it helps, other than the fact that you're a friend I'd hate to lose, we need you. I can barely stand and Rodney's hypoglycemia's kicking his ass. I doubt we're going to last much longer. So without you, Teyla's on her own. Not that I think she can't take care of herself, but it would be a lot easier on her if she wasn't alone."

Ronon's jaw twitched. "We need food, Sheppard."

Teyla felt John's body sag in defeat. "I know, Chewy. We could wait 'til nightfall, go in then, or something. We'll think of something."

They did not go too far from Ile's camp, keeping within range to smell the smoke of the cooking fire. They huddled against the broad base of a massive tree and gnawed on the remaining scraps of their rations. There were no plans for taking Ile's food. One bite, a quick chew, then Sheppard was out. Rodney followed soon after. Even with the whole strip of meat Teyla had made him eat, McKay's hands still shook, his face was glowing with sweat, and his breathing was shallow and rapid.

Ronon watched the two men sleep. Sheppard was still but Rodney was restless, breaking the silence with whimpers and groans. The satedan pulled his gun. "I'm getting the food." He started to rise, but Teyla grabbed his arm and pulled him back down.

"No! John is right. You are a good warrior, unbeatable when you are at your usual strength but you are not."

Ronon pulled his arm away. "I'm not a stranger to hunger, Teyla. It's never stopped me. I can take this guy."

Teyla wrapped her thin fingers around his wrist. "Ronon, please. We cannot take that chance. Put your gun down. We will think of something else, I swear. John and Rodney will not die like this. But I will not risk losing you."

Ronon's fingers fidgeted on the grip until he finally lowered the weapon to the ground. Teyla smiled, sighing, and gripped Ronon's arm. "Thank you." She then snatched the weapon from the ground and fired it. Ronon convulsed in a halo of red and crumpled to the ground. Teyla gasped, her heart pounding, her gut knotting. "And I have thought of something."

Teyla slipped from the camp following the scent of smoke back to Ile's camp, tucking the gun into the waistband of her skirt at her back. She crouched behind the shrubs, peering through the gaps at Ile making his way from around the wagon then into it. She could hear murmured voices that ascended into shouts, followed by a slap and yelp of pain. Teyla flinched.

_Think of your friends. Think of Janee._ Resolve hardened like steel around her heart until she felt nothing, not the cold and especially not her own fear. She was so weary of fear. It kept her alive at the price of everyone dying around her. She was tired of pain, all kinds of pain. She just wanted it to stop.

Teyla rose and stepped rigidly around the shrubs and up to the wagon's door. She knocked softly and stepped back. The door swung open to Ile's weapon, then Ile when he lowered the gun. Teyla saw behind him the woman and girl huddled at the other end, the daughter cowering against the mother and the mother with a bruise forming on her jaw. She looked back to Ile regarding her suspiciously, then lasciviously.

He grinned. "Changed your mind I take it?"

Teyla lowered her eyes and gnawed her lip, masking herself in fear and shy uncertainty. "My friends are dying."

Ile nodded and let his eyes wander over Teyla's body. "I take it the skinny one doesn't know?"

Teyla swallowed. "No, he does not."

Ile stepped outside of the wagon, closing the door behind him. He stood with little more than an inch between him and Teyla. "No need to worry about him walking in on us, then?" His hand moved to her shoulder, down her arm to her wrist that he gripped with sand-rough fingers. "No need to fret over his," he chuckled, "wrath."

Teyla shook her head. Ile's hand roved back up her arm to behind her neck, pulling her within reach of his lips that brushed across her jaw. Teyla's stomach seemed to shrink in on itself so tight she thought she was going to vomit. Ile's breath was sour as spoiled food and his lips were cracked. The rough hand slipped down the collar of her shirt to touch the skin of her back. She fought not to pull away, to grab his arm and twist it until it broke, to kick out. Moisture stung her eyes so she bit her lip to keep from sobbing. She hated this, hated it so bad it was as though the very air were coating her skin in grime and oil. His hand moved softly across her back, over her shoulder, making its way to the front.

The last who had tried this had beat her for attempting to do the very things she wished she could do to Ile. But this was not the master, she was at no ones mercy. No bludgeons or whips or jealous women to hurt her. It was just her, him, two guns, and the lives of her friends.

Her friends. She was doing this for her friends.

She placed one hand on the back of Ile's head. The other she slipped beneath her coat, to her back, sliding her finger through the trigger. With the same nerve-shredding deliberation, she pulled the weapon from her skirt, tensed her muscles, then gripped Ile's hair, yanking his head back and pulling the gun around, firing. Red crackled and Ile convulsed before dropping into a useless heap.

Teyla stood in the cold silence broken by her rasping breaths. She was shaking, shaking so hard the gun rattled in her grip. She shoved back shock and disgust and rushed into the wagon. The woman and child were still huddled at the back, both sobbing. Teyla took several deep breaths trying to keep her heart from beating out of her chest.

"I – I need food. As much as you feel you are able to part with. Quickly!"

The woman nodded, pushing the girl behind her. She grabbed a sack and started stuffing bread, cheese, dried meats, and dried vegetables into it until the sack bulged. Teyla's heart went from beating heavy to beating light with growing relief. When the woman finished, she handed the sack over. Teyla grabbed it and slung it one-handed over her shoulder.

The woman stepped timidly back. "Did you kill my husband, then?" she asked. Teyla could not tell if she was afraid because she was hopeful, or truly afraid for her husband.

"He is merely stunned," Teyla said. "He will wake up eventually."

The woman nodded. Teyla tucked the gun into her coat and backed toward the door. "Thank you." She turned and bolted from the wagon, tearing over the frosty ground, the roar of her blood in her ears deafening her to the pounding of her feet.

It was impossible to see in the dark. She had no idea where she was or where she was going. She just kept running until exhaustion hit her like a fist and she dropped, skinning her knees on the unforgiving ground. She didn't get up, didn't want to. Her flesh crawled and she scratched trying to chase unseen insects tickling over her nerves. Panting turned to hiccuping sobs. She could still feel it, all of it: Ile's calloused hands, his fetid breath, lips moving over her jaw making for her neck, fingers seeking out her chest. Teyla pulled up her sleeves and scrubbed at her skin until it burned.

At some point in time, she collapsed into a weeping ball, then succumbed to sleep. She did not know any of it had happened until she awoke to a hand on her shoulder. She started, gasping, knocking the hand away and scrabbling back until a tree blocked her escape. She was afraid to look up and see the angry eyes of Ile, so the figure in front of her crouched, and she met the concerned brown eyes of Ronon.

Teyla sucked in a quivering breath and exhaled it on a sob. "Ronon, I am sorry, I am so sorry, it was all I could think of, I am so sorry..."

Ronon reach out wiping a tear from her cheek with the knuckle of his finger. "I'm not mad." He then took her hand in his, gently. "Come on, McKay and Sheppard are waiting."

Teyla let him pull her up. She started, a chill ripping down her spine as she searched the ground for the food.

"I got it," Ronon said. She looked up to see him adjusting the sack higher on his shoulder.

They did not have to go far, just a few minutes of walking. Rodney was standing, pacing, breathing fast and tearing into the last strip of meat. Sheppard was still lying on the ground cocooned in blankets. When McKay saw them, he rushed forward wide-eyed, pale, sweating, and shaking.

"What – what – what – what happened? What happened? Where'd you guys go, what happened? What..."

"Calm down, McKay," Ronon grumbled. "Teyla got us some food."

"She did? When, how?"

Ronon dumped the bag on the ground and rooted through it until he pulled out a crust of bread that he slapped into Rodney's hand. "Later. Eat, now." He turned to Sheppard and crouched, placing a gentle hand on the thinner man's shoulder and shaking him. "Sheppard. Hey, Sheppard. We have food."

John didn't stir, so Ronon patted his face lightly. "Come on, Sheppard, you need to wake up."

He was finally answered by a low moan. Ronon pulled the layers of blankets apart until he reached the bony body. He hauled Sheppard up, placing him against the tree then tucking the blanket around his body below his arms. Ronon dug through the pack again, finding bread and some meat, putting both in Sheppard's hands.

"Eat," he demanded.

Sheppard focused mostly on nibbling the bread. Satisfied, Ronon stood and turned to Teyla. "You did good."

Teyla wrapped her arms around herself, pressing her fingers into her arms to keep from scratching at her skin trying to crawl off her bones.

-----------------------------

"She was growing cocky, thinking herself one of the favored."

"It was inevitable."

"Stupid girl."

"She knew of Magala's temper. She should not have crossed her."

Except Janee had not. She had not done anything except what the master had wanted. One night, only one night and the master had not sought her since. Teyla moved through the gaggle of gossiping women into the bungalow. It was quiet but not dark with all the lamps lit. She made her way to the back where the soldiers would soon be, but they were not there yet. Janee was a heap of bloody skin and broken bones staring with empty eyes at the ceiling.

Magala had been so angry. Teyla had heard the talk out in the fields, heard the screams. She had run, and run, and run, never fast enough. Magala had been smug, triumphant, until Teyla had struck at her.

Will, will strike at her the moment the soldiers come to take the body. It was not the beatings that had killed Janee. Janee had bled out fast from a tree root protruding from her chest, out of her heart. The shape of the fingers printed in blood around the root were too thin to be Magala's.

Janee had not been one to carry pain. She had not known how.

Teyla awoke because her face was cold. She lifted her hand and wiped the moisture from her cheeks. It was still dark out, the sky clear and black. Teyla pulled her body from the blankets and rose using fluid motions to maintain the silence. Their camp was an alcove formed by an indention in a hill and massive tree roots. they were at the top of a much larger hill with a ledge high enough to over-look the valley. Teyla made her way to it, sitting with her legs hanging over the edge. Below was a field of tall grass, and above a star-compacted night and milk-white full moon. Everything was black and silver-white, dark and light. Teyla rubbed her arms that ached from the itching and tension that had left her body stiff. She was so tired, wanted to sleep. But to sleep meant she would dream and remember.

One night, just one night with the master could have saved Janee. Had the girl, her only friend in that terrible place, not been important enough?

Would it had saved her?

Teyla had escaped the day after. She had reached a point where she no longer cared. Finding the others had been a goal, like a destination, just to give her someplace to go and something to do. She had not expected to find them any more than she had expected to live.

She had stopped caring. She had just wanted the pain to end.

Fresh tears replaced the old and Teyla quickly wiped them away. She felt sick, and old, and ragged; slicked with filth. Her chest hitched and tears poured hot and fast down her face.

"Teyla?"

She was so tired. Too many what ifs and what could have beens. Finding friends only to lose them only to find them and... almost lose them again. She couldn't take it. Next time it would be worse. Next time she will go farther, or not far enough, and will probably lose them either way. They will not want her anymore, not this Teyla. She was no longer their Teyla.

She felt a slight weight on her shoulders and warmth at her back. Dirt and needles crunched when Sheppard lowered himself down beside her, studying her, his face sunken and white in the moonlight. "Teyla?"

Teyla's breath caught. She lowered her head hiding her face in her hand. She could not stop the tears or she would explode, so she let them fall. "I let him touch me."

"Who?"

"Ile, I let him... to distract him. And I would have, I would have let him do more, I would have. I was just so tired of it. Always losing someone when all I had to do was let myself be taken. That was all. And I would have. This time I would have, I know it." Teyla gasped. "I am so sorry."

"Oh my gosh." Rodney's voice, soft with horror, but Teyla did not look up. She felt John's thin arm slide around her shoulders and pull her in close. Rodney's arm across her back below John's, and Ronon's larger hand clasped hers.

"It's all right, Teyla," Sheppard soothed. "It didn't happen, you didn't let it."

"Yeah," said Rodney. "I've come to realize thinking and doing tend to be two different things."

"You didn't let it come to that." Ronon.

"Teyla," said John. "We've all been willing to do things for others. We try for the alternatives, which doesn't always happen, but we try. And like Ronon said, it didn't come to that. You were just trying to save us."

Teyla buried her face into John's bony chest and wept, shuddering. "He touched me, he..." She felt sick, sick enough to throw up. The arms around her tightened, as did Ronon's hand in hers.

"I'm so sorry, Teyla," Sheppard breathed. "I'm sorry."

"It was the only way."

"We know," said Rodney. "It's okay, we understand."

"It's what any of us would have done," Ronon said.

McKay snorted. "Yeah, if Ile had been a woman. But since he was a guy, I would have straight-up shot him, or at least tried to but he probably would have shot me, first. Actually, a woman would have, too."

"Probably," said John. "Thus the need for a distraction."

Teyla couldn't help a smile and a small laugh at that. They did not think any different of her, and she suddenly wondered why she had ever thought they would. She felt a hand stroke her head, maybe John's or Rodney's or Ronon's. Didn't matter. Either one, she knew them and trusted them. They would protect her as much as she protected them.

"Wow, nice view," whispered McKay.

Teyla lifted her head to regard the land and sky stretching into eternity before her, then her team members gathered in close. "It is lovely," she said. But it was not as beautiful as the three men that surrounded her.

TBC...


	6. Chapter 6

A/N: Profuse apologies. I meant to get this chapter out sooner but I was having a hard time with it. It kept trying to go in different directions.

Ch. 6

"You're not slowing us down, colonel," Rodney groused. "We're all a little worn out here, if you hadn't noticed, so don't think fatigue revolves around you."

"Then don't bring it up when it feels like we haven't gotten anywhere," Ronon replied. They had all been silent up until the point Ronon had said they would need to find a place to stop.

To which Rodney had replied. "Now? We barely even started walking! Is it just me or are we going slower."

That's when Sheppard had apologized. One small "sorry" that sent McKay into a tirade on why Sheppard couldn't possibly be at fault for slowing them down. Considerate as his intent was supposed to be, Ronon didn't think it was helping matters any. He doubted Sheppard had heard any of it. The thinner man had deteriorated throughout the day into using Ronon as a crutch just to stay upright and focus on breathing.

Sheppard felt feather-light against him, the bone of the arm Ronon held to help was tangible through the skin. Teyla leaned up against his other side, just as frail and light, with Rodney beside her wheezing and shivering.

"I was pointing out how damn short the days feel," Rodney shot back. "Shorter than earth days, I'm thinking. I need a watch to form a more concrete basis, but I'm pretty sure that's the case."

"We need to find shelter," Ronon stated a second time, cutting McKay off. He passed Sheppard over to the scientist, with Teyla ambling over to lean up against the smaller man. The blaster was handed over next before Ronon took off.

He didn't allow himself to go far. The first cluster of shrubs large enough to hide all four of them he mentally marked, then returned to the others to lead the way back. It was cramped, but cramped was good, retaining better warmth. Teyla rummaged through their sack of supplies pulling out bread, meat, and dividing up a root McKay had said looked like a purple carrot.

"T-to b-bad," Rodney stuttered, "it's t-to t-tight f-for a fire. I c-can't feel my f-fingers."

Ronon shook his head. "Even if we had the room we couldn't risk it."

"W-why not?" Rodney whined. Teyla took his hands into hers, massaging warmth into the fingertips.

"Slave hunters," John whispered. He was back to leaning up against Ronon, buried deep in a blanket except for the top half of his face. "C-Closer we g-get to the gate... more there are. C-can't take... chances."

When finished eating they curled up against each other, layering the blankets into a single blanket capturing their combined warmth. Sheppard's back shivered against Ronon's chest. He could hear Teyla's breath hitch and Rodney's teeth chatter. The days were getting colder, the air like solid ice that hurt to breathe. This was the winter they had been warned about that came after the warmer calm. Had they been in better shape, the possible snow-fall would have been the bigger concern. As it was, the cold was the real threat.

Ronon didn't know when he had fallen asleep, only to wake up to the distant snap of a twig that years of running from the wraith had honed into the reverberation of a gunshot. The night was dark, void-like, still. Ronon would have said too still except it had been this way since setting off on their journey home. Without the night noises usually prevalent during warmer times, he had no warning signs for danger.

Ronon slowed his breathing, tilting his head back. He counted the seconds by the beat of his heart. A minute passed, then two, then three. No more snaps, not even the crunch of frozen forest debris. That was the only upside to the cold. It froze the ground making it impossible to tread over without sound.

The silence remained thick enough to cut through with a knife, pressing in like shrinking walls pulling the darkness down with it. Darkness like this, with no moon or even stars, was impenetrable. Whatever was out there, unless human or wraith, would not be able to find them. They smelled too much like the forest for a human nose to scent. If it was a wraith, Teyla would sense it. If an animal, it would have to get through the humans before getting to the food that Rodney had clutched protectively in his arm, the opening in the sack tied off tight.

Four minutes, then five when a soft whimper from Rodney shoved the silence back.

"I didn't do anything," McKay begged, then quieted.

Ronon continued listening into the silence. He didn't know when he had drifted back to sleep, being something he wasn't exactly used to.

---------------------------------------

There had been an unspoken rule at the fighting arena – the battle did not end on the battle ground. There was a way to cheat if a warrior felt himself paired with one he could not beat. Accidents during training, poison that would weaken the body slipped into food, paying the guards with something they desired to do the killing for them.

Ronon figured that was just life. There was always going to be something out there waiting to kill you, to take you, whatever. Even with the transmitter out of his back and an advanced city to call home, Ronon hadn't stopped letting his guard down. You just don't do that.

Only exhaustion could bring it down when it really mattered. Ronon snapped awake half expecting to see his team gone, then breathing out in relief on seeing that they were still there.

Being the first up, Ronon was the one to wake the others. It was a sluggish, reluctant return for all of them. Rodney twisted and turned cracking the aches out of his back, Teyla was disoriented and Ronon had to lift Sheppard bodily and hold him in place by the arm. They ate – more bread, meat, and this time what Rodney called an orange beet – then staggered and stumbled their way back onto their unseen road.

"You cheated, Rodney," Sheppard said.

McKay tossed his hands up in frustration. "It's 'bored', Sheppard, not a lot of letters to jumble

"You added an extra E."

"No," Rodney gritted. "You're just not paying attention."

"I would have to agree with John," Teyla jumped in. "I did hear you say another E."

"Fine! How about this one - o-o-t-o-y-n-m," Rodney spelled.

Sheppard grinned. "Monotony. Is it just me or am I sensing a theme here?"

"Perhaps," Rodney replied. "I'm starting to think my brain is lodging a protest against my body. It needs stimuli. So stimulate me. Hit me with another word."

Sheppard's grin became a rather feral smirk and he opened his mouth, only to be interrupted by a livid McKay raising a stiff finger.

"_Not_ antidisestablishmentarianism again!"

"Just keeping you on your toes, McKay. Okay, how about this one – e-z-r-o i-n-t-o-p o-d-l-m-u-e."

Rodney rolled his eyes skyward as he muttered the letters over and over.

"Zero point Module," Teyla supplied.

Rodney shot her a look of baffled shock while Sheppard simply smirked. "She's good."

McKay rearranged his expression into one of indifference. "Yes, very good. My turn..."

The hairs at the back of Ronon's neck prickled. He peered over his shoulder directing his ear away from the chatter toward the silence of the forest. There was still nothing to see, nothing to hear. That didn't mean nothing was out there.

"o-f-e-f-e-c," Rodney spelled.

"Coffee," came John's prompt reply. "Getting a little predictable there, McKay."

Ronon would have preferred their silence but didn't see the point. If there was something out there, then it was following them, or Ronon would have heard it by now.

They stopped early before twilight when Ronon spotted a tree hollow through the forest. Again it was cramped, but again that was a good thing, the solid trunk a better barrier against the icy breezes that seemed to scour their skin.

"We should set up a watch," Ronon said, helping to adjust the blankets around all of them.

Rodney's eyes widened in alarm. "Why, did you see something? Hear something? Is someone out there or did something try to take our food again?"

Sheppard narrowed his eyes in intense, strategic focus. "Did you see something?"

Ronon shook his head. "Just a feeling."

McKay snorted. "Oh, well, in paranoia we trust, then. Is that it?"

"Rodney," John growled. "I would think it a logical move to trust the instincts of a guy who'd evaded the wraith for seven years. _With_ a tracking device in him, I might add. If he says there should be a watch, then there should be a watch."

Rodney opened his mouth to retort, only to have immediate second thoughts. "Good point. So how are we supposed to time this watch sans time piece and a clear sky?"

Ronon shrugged. "Watch until you start to fall asleep, then wake the next person. I'll start off."

They ate a small dinner of bread and more purple carrot, then the three settled down on the packed, frozen ground while Ronon remained sitting up with a blanket wrapped tight around his shoulders. He had his legs drawn up and his hip against Sheppard's knobby back to help block out most of the cold. The night was sharp, windless. Ronon's breath fogged thick and pale in the scant moonlight squeezing through the overcast.

His intention had always been to take most of the watch. He was used to it, always had been and still was. There had been no sleeping in the arena, only a light doze and meditative state that kept one foot in the conscious realm. Sleep was when the guards came looking for sport, or pleasure, or to act on some prepaid arrangement. It had been a backwards ordeal, sacrificing the needs of the body to keep the body safe.

Sheppard shifted with a pained groan, McKay whimpered, and Teyla Ronon could barely see covered up to her face as she was. Ronon looked at them bundled small and exhausted beneath layers of blankets. He didn't feel tired, not even drowsy.

Fighting for his own survival had been going through the motions. It had been instinct, natural as breathing, and he doubted he could have given up even if he had wanted to. Keeping vigil, alert – he had just done it without having to think about it.

He found he preferred it this way, when it wasn't just his own life he was watching out for. It made it so much easier, like having a goal, a purpose. It made his years as a runner worth something beyond simply defying the wraith.

Which was why he needed to get these three people home, or those skills forced on him for the sake of survival wouldn't mean a damn thing.

Ronon returned his gaze to the night-drenched, dead-silent forest. If there was something out there, then it was a patient something. A something willing to bide its time until Ronon caved to the assumption that he was just being paranoid after all.

This something had a lot to learn about Ronon Dex.

-------------------------------------------

"You're not a one man army, Ronon," Sheppard panted, not really upset as he had been when he realized Ronon had taken most of the watch. His tone was more permissible, letting Ronon know that what he had done was not what he had needed to do without it going unappreciated. A gentle reprimand saying that, next time around, it was okay to let someone else take watch.

"Yeah," Rodney snapped. "The world of guard duty does not revolve around you. I wouldn't have counted on the colonel remaining upright for more than two minutes. I, on the other hand, could have probably lasted an hour. That wouldn't have killed you."

_No, it would have killed us, _Ronon wanted to rib. He couldn't bring himself to do as much, not the way Rodney was being so... _voluntary_. Maybe he was bragging, but Ronon had to respect that he was bragging over something he would normally try to avoid doing. It was with a lot of reluctance that Ronon admitted to making a lot of assumptions about the smaller man. McKay was of a practical nature, doing what needed to be done while avoiding it when it was possible.

Ronon had once considered it a selfish brand of survival, yet it was survival nonetheless.

With a mere shrug, Ronon let their comments roll off his back. They could volunteer all they wanted, didn't mean he would let it happen. Ronon knew what he had been doing.

After the mild, good-natured berating was past, silence settled like closing walls. Ronon wanted to say the culprit to be exhaustion and the biting cold. Except for the tension. Ronon could feel it thrumming under the thinned-out skin of his team mates: a finer vibration beneath the hard trembling. It sharpened every sound until the crunch of frozen loam was like a slap and a beating heart like distant thunder.

Ronon angled his head for a surreptitious peek over his shoulder. There was nothing to see, never anything to see, beyond trees and naked, bony branches that bent, creaked and clicked. Nothing to hear beyond what he was hearing now: labored breaths and frozen ground. No reason to think they weren't alone.

Except for a smell, innocuous as a grain of pale sand in dark dirt. Too small to identify but not small enough to go unnoticed even among the dominant smells of wood, frozen earth and unwashed bodies. A new scent that didn't belong, like a flaw.

Ronon sniffed and caught it again.

Definitely not alone.

-------------------------------

Camp was within a cluster of boulders and shrubs that did a better job of blocking out the nighttime wind than shrubs alone. Ronon settled himself between the two short pillars of rock leaning up against each other forming a crude entrance. The overcast had parted enough for the moon to sharpen every tree, every feature, in ghost-white and black. It would have been dead silent except for clacking branches and Rodney's recalcitrant muttering. Ronon heard the scientist shuffle to sit behind and a little to the side where there was space.

"Sheppard's not doing so hot," McKay said. "He takes one bite of food and I have to wake him to take another bite. Teyla's going walking dead on us. She was eating that nasty, blue onion thing that tastes like garlic and Aspirin. I'm not even sure if you're meant to eat it. Might have been used to keep rodents away or something."

Ronon turned his head enough to see Rodney hunched in a blanket, leaning against the lee of the rock and shivering, the red on his cheeks bright against the pale skin.

McKay shook his head. "I don't think it's a good idea we keep going like this. I want to get home just as much as the next guy but this pace is going to kill one of us." He squinted his eyes skeptically. "If there's really someone following us..."

"There is," Ronon stated, moving his gaze back to the black and silver-white woods.

"Is this some kind of former runner, second-instinct sixth-sense thing? I mean, and don't take this wrong, it's not that I'm doubting you. It's just... just so _cliché,_ I guess. A guy spending a chunk of his life thwarting nature and the odds to come out of it with survival skills that are like a super power..." Ronon heard the rustle of cloth normally created by a shrug. "I don't know. Life's supposed to imitate art. I never thought it could be the other way around. Is it a feeling or something? Is that how you know?"

Ronon smirked. He'd always suspected Rodney's condescending remarks toward his survival skills either jealousy or because he was weirded out by them. He had also been subjected to enough earth movies to know what it was McKay was talking about.

"Kind of," Ronon replied. "But I think even you would eventually realize it if you were being watched. It would take a while, but you would." He shook his head. "There's more to it. You get a feeling and you go with it just to play it safe. Doesn't mean there's anything out there or anything going on. It's just better not to second guess."

"So how to you know?" Rodney asked. Ronon heard dirt scrape when McKay scooted closer. "I mean really, really know? Nothing against you but there's been a couple of times where it took you a while to figure out we weren't alone. If I can realize when I'm being watched then it's just as likely that you can be oblivious to it. Not that you _really_ have been but you've had your moments."

Ronon's smirk tweaked into an amused grin. Rodney's less than tactful responses could go either way in making or breaking a mood.

"When you've been forced as long as I have into preserving your own life, you get conditioned to it," Dex said. "Nothing much. Heightened senses for the most part. Heightened sensitivity. Sort of like when a man goes blind, so his hearing sharpens. It's just the body adjusting itself to keep going."

Rodney snorted and muttered, "Nothing much to it. Right."

"There isn't," Ronon said. "Sheppard's the same way."

Rodney snorted again, only louder. "I think Sheppard a little too dependent on things that make other things go boom to be able to survive in the wild."

"He knows how to survive," Ronon said. "Sheppard's smart, thinks on his feet. Knows when he's being watched. Knows the difference between natural and unnatural silence. And he knows how to listen to his instincts. It's not some magical power. It's just conditioning."

Ronon was met with no immediate reply. Silence stretched taut making him wonder if McKay had fallen asleep. Then, "Think, uh... think I could be... conditioned?"

Ronon glanced over his shoulder at the reluctant but hopeful look on Rodney's face.

"Yeah," he said.

Rodney smiled hesitantly, then a little proudly. "Oh. Well... good to know. Because I'm taking next watch."

-------------------------------------

They weren't being watched, they were being studied. Possibly tested. The first distant crack of a snapped twig after two days of utter silence was enough to get even Ronon's heart to jump. The clatter, snap, and crackle of ground debris not so much.

"They trying to determine if we'll run?" Sheppard asked, breathless.

Ronon shrugged. Maybe they were, maybe they weren't. Maybe they'd just gotten careless.

No, they knew what they were doing. Two days of being nothing more than a faint scent, knowing how to stifle sound that should have been thunder-loud in this kind of quiet; all the noise of today was deliberate, either to scare them or try to draw them out, _him_ out – the one holding the gun.

The team moved in a huddle that had only half to do with keeping warm. There were plenty of trees thick enough for a body to hide behind, plenty of opportunities to grab the first out of the group to stray just two feet too far. They walked in the same order that they slept: Ronon and McKay on the outside, Teyla and John in the center. Like out of habit, except that it wasn't habit and obvious to all of them. Yet neither Teyla nor Sheppard complained, Sheppard especially.

Ronon could tell it hurt the man just as much as pissed him off being the weakest. Team leader, soldier, protector forced to be the protected – if so much as a minor injury resulted from one of the others having to keep him safe, it was going to hurt even worse. If one of them died for the same reason, or was taken back... it would kill him. Ronon got that. He was pretty much suffering the same feeling and he was the strongest out of all of them.

He had to get them all home, safe.

"Not to tempt fate here or anything," Rodney whispered as though there were any point to it. "But what's keeping them from just attacking? It's not like we're heavily armed and dangerous, here. Not even having our P-90s kept the last group back. I'd think one blaster protecting four very exhausted people a practical kick-me sign."

Ronon deliberately lifted that blaster back to his shoulder for anyone close enough watching to see. "Because whoever they are, they aren't many. One, maybe two. More than that and they would have been on us by now."

Rodney perked like a pet being offered a treat. "So... they're kind of afraid of us?"

Ronon curled his lips bitterly. "They're waiting for an opportunity to attack."

McKay instantly deflated. "Oh."

And if an opportunity wasn't presented, then these hunters would lower themselves to creating one. Whoever their stalker or stalkers, they were impatient or they would have remained silent for a couple days more. It's what Ronon would have done. It's what he had done, in a way, at the arena: observing while the rest of the fighters plotted and bribed to weaken their opponents. The first week there, Ronon had moved around with hunched shoulders and a down-cast gaze of contrite humility to lower estimations of him. He came to realize that the act was pointless. Even after a week of straight wins, he was still underestimated. It wasn't a matter of stupidity; it was desperation, playing pretend, going out with a bang or just as much an act as Ronon's had been in hopes that it would actually work, and he really couldn't blame them for it. Neither could he thank them, because they shouldn't have been forced into being that foolish to begin with.

Fools are those who don't need to play pretend, like that idiot Ackar.

If their stalker or stalkers were truly impatient, it could be used against them. Unless their impatience was deliberate because they felt themselves close to moving in. McKay was right, they were an easy target even with the blaster. Try as the group might, fear was inevitable and fear would be used against _them_. Throwing them off balance or herding them toward a particular destination were the two outcomes even wraith knew how to achieve.

It also didn't help that they were dependent on rest stops. It was still light out, shadowed within the forest but the upper branches sun-touched, when they came to their next shelter by chance. A tree hollow, small and cramped just like the other shelters while able to fit them if they squeezed in. It made eating a little difficult.

"You need to let us help take watch, Ronon," Sheppard said. He was leaning with his back against the inner wall, whittling the dried crust of bread down with small, methodical bites. "All the walking and these all nighters are going to kick your ass."

Rodney raised a tentative hand. "I'll – I'll take first watch."

Ronon agreed to it with a shrug. He would let Rodney to prevent further argument, and just until dark. Sheppard was right, he needed sleep, even if it was just an hour of it.

When finished eating, Ronon handed his blaster to a nervous Rodney and settled down beside Teyla, Sheppard on her other side curving his body with the wall of the tree.

Ronon's exhaustion was more than he had let himself realize. He didn't even recall having fallen asleep when Rodney woke him to take the next watch.

"Let Sheppard have a turn," McKay whispered as they switched places in a painfully careful way so as not to wake the others. "He could use the ego boost."

Ronon planned to, even if it wasn't for long. He dropped himself outside the warmer confines of the hollow, wrapped in a flaccid blanket that seemed to shiver with him. He had the moon at his back, positioned in the sky for its light to pour in at a slant.

Absolute silence sat heavy enough to turn his friends' gentle breathing into a bellows. Were he to listen hard enough, long enough, he just might be able to catch the timid flutter of a falling leaf, or maybe the whispered rush of a night-bird's wings. Except there was nothing out there, not even a rodent scurrying beneath the forest debris. It was too cold and the moon too bright.

Ronon did hear dead leaves crunch off to his right, closer than before but still distant. He turned his head casually the other way as though he hadn't heard.

_Think that's working?_ He couldn't speak out loud. That would be acknowledging them and acknowledging them could draw them out prematurely. Ronon wanted to draw them out when he was ready and if it was possible. Then again, they might not care and continue the ruse to make the team wonder, make them afraid.

The night crawled, the shadows with it. A snapped twig was the only other sound, closer than last time, the undercurrent scent clawing its way to the surface because the predators were circling, testing.

It wasn't until early morning twilight that Ronon saw movement for the first time in days. A flicker of it from one tree to the next, darkness pulling away from darkness only to dash back into it. Ronon rose abruptly, finger on the trigger, and took a step.

_This is what they want. _He was the strongest of this pack. Drawing him out would make the others easier to grab, which was all their stalkers needed.

Ronon took a step back and sat. Since giving chase was what they wanted, he would deny them of it.

-------------------------------------

Ronon let Sheppard take watch during the brighter twilight hours and dozed light enough to wake if John called. Sheppard's training and strength of heart Ronon trusted. His body, on the other hand, they were both in silent, grudging agreement could not be counted on. Neither doubted John could aim and shoot just fine, but if it came down to a fight for the gun or hand to hand combat then he was screwed.

Ronon hated this truth just as much as Sheppard. Where as it was a shame for John, it was a reason to worry for Ronon. Sheppard's decrepit body made him a target – draw off the strongest, then go for the weakest to hold hostage and subdue the others. The hunters didn't know John, probably assumed him too weak to fight. Then the moment they grabbed him and he started fighting...

They wouldn't kill him, but it wouldn't take much for them to hurt him. Ronon was sure Sheppard was just as aware of this and trying hard not to think about it.

It wasn't a long watch and they were up and moving during the gray hours of late dawn. The clouds were back, slate smooth and white-gray with a wind that sliced like a blade. The four hunkered close with shoulders bunched and backs curved pushing against it. Cold bled through blankets and clothes to stick to their skin like ice.

It was hard to breathe, to so much as keep their eyes open. Snot and breath-moisture froze on their faces, coating facial hair in ice-crystals. Ronon and Rodney were the only reason Sheppard and Teyla were still standing. Cold and shivering sucked them dry of energy too fast and too early.

If the stories of the Underworld were true – where the dark-souls go to wander in perpetual night over a land of ice and snow – then this must have been the gateway. Cold twisted and burrowed, riding their blood to the very core. It did not allow for thought or awareness. It shrank the world to putting one foot in front of the other, because once they stopped they would not be able to move again.

It was like wading through a nightmare. One Ronon did not wake up from until Teyla faltered and fell with a small cry, bringing Sheppard with her when he tried to hold her upright.

"W-w-w-we n-n-need t-to f-f-find sh-sh-shelter," Rodney gasped between clacking teeth.

McKay was right. Shelter and warmth. Ronon lifted Teyla back to her feet while Rodney handled Sheppard. They moved together from tree to copse of bushes to dells to rocks until they found a shallow indenture in the wall of a seven-foot high escarpment. It wasn't a cave or a tree hollow, but it kept most of the wind off of them. Ronon gathered dead logs and twigs for a fire, to the underworld with their stalkers who already knew the where abouts of their quarry.

It took waking Sheppard and Teyla after every bite of food for them to take another bite. Ronon and Rodney had to move them, their bodies and limbs, to the deeper corner of the not-cave, curling them to preserve the little warmth given by the fire.

They were like puppets made of sticks, light and compliant, almost delicate. Ronon placed Teyla with her back to Sheppard's chest and Rodney tucked them in.

"I'll take first watch," McKay said.

Ronon shook his head. "Not tonight."

"But..."

"_Not_ tonight. Trust me on this, McKay. Not tonight."

Rodney looked like he was ready to argue but not really wanting to. A long, level gaze prevented the scientist from having any more say in the matter. With a gulp, McKay nodded and crawled beneath the blanket to curl up with his back to Teyla.

It wasn't that Rodney was inept at taking watch. He had done well enough the other night. But with the hunters stepping up the game, Ronon could not, and would not, risk the others to whatever the hunters had in mind for tonight.

Ronon settled at the three's feet, stabbing the fire with a stick to keep it alive. The flames flickered, snapping and spitting a mesmerizing shower of sparks. Ronon loved it when fires sparked, embers fluttering up into the night like the star-people his grandmother used to tell him about – people too small to see except for their glow that allowed them to fly. Ronon had always wondered if they had been the Ancestors in disguise. Obviously not, so maybe they were something better...

Ronon blinked moistening dried eyeballs and clearing them of grit. The knowledge of being hunted maintained a steady influx of adrenaline allowing the body to stay awake. Ronon's body, however, was getting to be as treacherous as Sheppard's. Being more capable of trudging longer through this Underworld of a bad dream did not mean he was at full health. He wearied just like the others, maybe not as fast, but far faster than he had ever wearied before.

Ronon's body was displeased with him. Exhaustion was like hands tugging at every limb, pushing against every muscle adding weight that turned them into useless meat. Every sinew and ligament begged for him to lay down and release the tension that stood between a life of misery and his team.

If his body forced him to succumb to what he'd been ignoring night after night since he had realized they were being followed, the hunters would make their move.

It was what the hunters were waiting for since fear wasn't working.

Ronon waited until the early morning when the world was dark blue rather than pitch black. That's when motion flickered, darkness scurrying to darkness from tree to tree. Ronon rose moving four steps away from the hollow while still within the light of the fire.

"I know you're there," he called evenly. No need to shout in this silence. "I've known for a while. You must think me stupid if you believed I hadn't noticed. If you wish to take us then cut the games and come take us. Not that I'll let you, but at least you can die trying like a man instead of a child."

The reply was the snap of the fire and nothing else. Ronon waited anyways.

The dark blue of early twilight grew lighter into late twilight when the man-shaped shadow finally detached, moving with light steps to show off what he was capable of. The man, Ronon's height but with a wider, heavier build, stopped just within the weaker light of the fire's circle to show his face. His hair was shaved so close as to be completely bald, his ears weighted by several loops and thick rings of gold and silver, and his body buried under brown leathers and gray furs. A red, puckered scar bisected the right side of his face from eye to jaw.

The man carried no visible weapons. That didn't mean he was unarmed. He smiled a toothy smile.

"I like you," he said. He started to prowl the edge of the fire's circle, heel to toe in soft-souled boots that barely rustled a leaf. "You actually made this a challenge."

Ronon smirked and pulled his gun from its holster. "I've had a lot of practice."

The man pivoted on his heels grinding dirt and debris in a deliberate crunch. "Obviously." His gray eyes darted up and down Ronon's frame, past him to the three huddled in the niche, then back. "I have to admire your loyalty. I'd been hoping you'd ditch one of them by now, the way they've been slowing you down. That's usually how it plays, you see. You lot travel in packs 'cause you think there's safety in number. The going's good until lack of food and cold days start to reveal the weakest of the weak. They get to slowing you down. You help 'em 'cause you're in it together and that's the way it should be. Then the hunger starts to hurt or the cold bite and all you want is to get off this rock quick as a wink. But you can't 'cause of the one slowin' you up. So you leave 'em."

The man stopped, turning to face Ronon and stretching to his full height. "The loyal ones are rare enough to might as well not exist. So there's got to be respect where respect's due. Although I need to point out the folly in it. You'd get along faster without the dark-haired man and the woman."

The muscles of Ronon's trigger finger tensed. His entire body coiled tighter, shivering with adrenaline and cold. There was a time the cold wouldn't have registered. His body really was betraying him.

"It's not about moving faster," he growled. "It's about getting home. All of us."

The hunter's eyebrows lifted in casual astonishment. "Well, isn't that a lovely and noble sentiment." He lifted a finger that he tapped against his jaw. "Here's the thing. I can't let a prime piece of human flesh like you lot slip out of my grasp so easy. You yourself I could get a pretty coin for selling to the arena."

A chill sharper than the cold skittered down Ronon's spine. The hunter continued.

"The woman I could get more for, whatever her state. The two other fellows," he shrugged, "it depends. I haven't determined the little one's worth. The skinny one I'll be lucky to get a half-dil out of. Maybe more if I sell him to the body-knackers. Probably not much they can do with the skin but the hair, teeth and bones should be salvageable. I hear they're starting up the sacrifices again, seeing if throwing the useless to the wraith'll keep 'em back."

The hunter pointed at Ronon. "I'll make a deal with you." He resumed pacing, kicking up dead leaves, needles and twigs that crackled and shushed too loud in the quiet. "You give me the girl and the skinny male and I'll let you and the little male go free. Even give you a token to keep the others of my profession off your back." A thin, dark eyebrow cocked imploringly. "You'd get home quicker."

Ronon snorted. The man must have thought him an idiot...

No, he was stalling.

"Ronon look out!"

A brief glance over the shoulder, barely seconds long, revealed the second hunter stumbling around with Rodney clinging tight to his neck. Ronon snapped his attention away in time to meet the first hunter coming at him. Dex ducked ramming his shoulder into the first hunter's gut, using the man's momentum to flip him over onto his back. The man landed with a grunt, recovered, and rolled onto his feet into a charge.

Ronon lurched back and fired. The blast slammed into the man's chest, flipping him onto his belly to hide the gaping hole.

An agonized shriek brought Ronon's gaze back to the second hunter. The man, a mound of skins and cloth hiding most of his face, had Rodney pinned against him, one arm around the scientist's throat, McKay's own arm being twisted around his back.

The second hunter tightened his hold and twisted higher until Rodney choked out a whimper.

Ronon shook his head. "Stupid move." He switched the setting on his gun and fired. The stun blast skimmed the man's head and he crumpled into a boneless heap.

With another cry, Rodney pulled his arm around to his front, hugging it to his chest, and dropped to his knees rocking and whimpering. Ronon holstered his gun and hurried to him.

Dropping into a crouch, he reached out for Rodney's arm. "It broken?"

"I – I d-d-don't know." When Ronon's fingers brushed the sleeve, Rodney pulled back with a snarled, "Don't! Don't touch it, don't..."

"I have to," Ronon said, hands held out. "You know it."

Rodney glared at Ronon defiantly, then miserably. He sat back moving his hand away for Ronon to get to the limb and prod it gently. Rodney didn't hiss and shed a few tears until Ronon touched the skin of the wrist. The flesh was swelling, but there was no lump of misaligned bone underneath. A small sliver of good fortune there.

"At least I don't have to set it," Ronon said. "I'll find something to wrap it with. Keep it elevated. That'll keep the swelling down."

Rodney gritted his teeth until they ground. "Thank you Beckett's barbarian clone for that piece of redundant info."

Ronon just shook his head. He'd learned long ago not to take the barbs to heart. It was easier practiced when Rodney was venting from injury or fear, injury especially. Everyone had a right to impatience when hurting.

Ronon searched the two hunters for supplies, pulling knives, poisoned darts with a blow-pipe, skins and cloth to gather in a pile by the niche. He used the cloth and the straightest sticks he could find to wrap Rodney's wrist and immobilize it in a sling.

"Better?" he asked.

Rodney, eyes watering and cheeks red from the cold and exertion, lifted his chin in false indifference. "I'll live."

Ronon clapped him lightly on the shoulder. "You will." He rose to gather the skins and place them over Sheppard and Teyla, still asleep, which he found disconcerting after all the chaos. Caving to momentary dread, he placed his fingers against their necks to be reassured by the steady flutter of their pulses. Sheppard stirred at the touch and that was all.

Satisfied as he was going to get under the circumstances, Ronon returned to the pile to start sorting knives. The smallest and thinnest he slipped into his hair, another he tied using a strap of leather to his wrist, and another he secured the same way to his ankle. The rest he would hand out to the others.

Taking a leather-hilted dagger, Ronon turned to Rodney sitting by the fire and slipped it into his sling.

"You did good," he said.

Rodney, hunched soberly, perked. "I did?"

Ronon nodded. "You did." He used the remaining leather straps to tie up the second hunter, gagging the man with a strip of cloth. "You want to take watch?"

"Um, yeah, sure, I can."

Ronon handed him the blaster, patted him in the shoulder, then settled down beside Teyla pulling the shared blanket over his shivering body. Barely a minute later he felt the weight of a skin being draped over him.

Energy left him, turning muscle and bone to rock that he couldn't move. It was a well-earned exhaustion. He'd always preferred fights with a purpose, the kind allowing for no doubts or regrets. Today was an accomplishment.

Today was one more day they were alive.

TBC...

A/N: The next chapter I promise won't take as long.


	7. Chapter 7

A/N: Rodney's turn.

Ch. 7

The look on Sheppard's face when Ronon told him what had happened was depressing: two seconds of shock, five seconds of puppy-dog sad, then ending with pathetically forced composure.

"Oh," Sheppard said forcing nonchalance. "And me and Teyla... slept through it."

Ronon nodded as he rolled and bundled their supplies, stuffing most of it into the much roomier food-sack even with the enemy rations and paraphernalia added to it.

Rodney just rolled his eyes and jabbed the half-charred stick into the embers raising a cloud of ash. So help him, if Sheppard was more worried about not being able to play hero than sleeping through that nightmare... As much as John _didn't_ complain about being the least imposing one out of all of them, he wasn't fooling anyone pretending it didn't bother him. And as much as McKay sympathized, the man had something more important to think about. And if he wasn't thinking about it...

"We slept through it," Sheppard echoed. According to the troubled look on his face, he was thinking about it.

McKay stopped stabbing. He didn't like seeing that look, all glazed over with thinly veiled fear. And guilt, like he had done something horribly wrong. Teyla was wearing a similar expression.

It hurt to see it on both of them, usually being the strong ones and all. McKay was starting to suspect his earlier assumption not too far off one's rocker – this planet was out to get them.

Ronon rose hefting the sack over his shoulder. "You were exhausted. Both of you. It couldn't be helped."

It wasn't exactly convincing but it did put a reluctant end to the matter. Guilt and worry would continue to hover unless they wanted to address the real matter that they couldn't do a damn thing about until they got home. A matter shoved in their faces every single nano-second, emphasized when Ronon helped Sheppard to his feet and had to maintain his hold so that the Lt. Colonel wouldn't fall. Rodney, grunting his way up onto stiff, aching legs, had to do the same for Teyla.

The cold was still vicious but the weight of the skins helped, which would have been more enjoyable if they hadn't been scavenged from the dead and unconscious (Ronon had thought it more humane to stun the guy a second time rather than tie him to a tree. Okay, more like Sheppard thought it more humane. Ronon hadn't given a damn).

They started off, Dorothy and her decrepit friends without a yellow brick road to take them back to Oz, hanging on to hope that they made it before the scarecrow finally keeled over. Except Sheppard wasn't brainless, Ronon wasn't heartless, Teyla had been uprooted enough to call more than one place home and Rodney...

Rodney had broken his arm trying to save the day. He called it stupidity, although some might say it was courage. He hadn't really thought about it when he'd acted. He'd woken to the second guy slipping up on Ronon from behind, so panicked and lunged.

Yes, definitely stupid. Worth it, but stupid. And wasn't stupidity the definition of bravery? Or was it something else? Instinct, maybe, like Ronon's conditioning? No thinking, just reacting since there's no time for the former.

Fine, so maybe it wasn't stupidity. Kind of. Forced stupidity?

All Rodney knew was that he never wanted to do something like that again. He was surprised the fear alone hadn't killed him as that guy had been ready to break his neck. It was why Rodney McKay abhorred violence. Violence tended to include all those within the immediate vicinity.

"So," Rodney began when he couldn't take the silence anymore. "Are your spidey-senses tingling today or are we in the clear? And don't act like you don't know what I'm talking about. You watched that movie ten times before the sequel finally arrived."

"We're in the clear for now," Ronon said.

Rodney exhaled through his teeth. "Yes, very reassuring."

The Satedan shrugged. "We were told there'd be more hunters the closer we got to the gate. We were also told to stay off the road to avoid them."

"Yes, which is working in our favor so swimmingly," Rodney coolly replied.

"Better two than three or four," said Ronon. Rodney could have sworn he caught a little doubt in the runner's tone. Yes, better than three or four. But what if they ran into three or four? Or three or four with dogs or guns?

It was both a sobering and terrifying enough thought for McKay to go quiet in case there were more within hearing range.

Though the extra covering helped, the cold and energy expenditure still sapped Teyla and Sheppard too dry too quickly, forcing an early stop. Tonight was one of those unlucky nights where a shelter couldn't be located. And since Rodney wasn't the only one mulling stressfully over more hunting parties, they had to go without a fire. Their only scrap of luck was the lack of any wind. They ate pieces of dried fruit and even drier jerky, then curled up against each other under fur pelts and blankets.

Rodney ended up next to Sheppard to suffer being poked by his sharp backbone. At least he didn't have to worry about being shanked by pointy elbows during a night-terror fit. Except that wasn't a consolation, it was a reason to be concern. Rodney hadn't really noticed Sheppard's lack of thrashing about in the grip of a nightmare until the night he hadn't woken during the attack. It took a fairly hefty exhaustion to keep night terrors on a tight leash. Rodney wanted to say, for that reason, that it was a good thing. But he knew it wasn't.

Then there was Teyla, also too exhausted as well as too quiet even for her. Rodney hadn't heard her say one word today.

When morning came, Rodney attempted to force a little more food into the two before they resumed hoofing it. They managed to finish off a palm-sized crust of bread, three slices of shriveled fruit the size of a quarter, and a swallow of water. He tried to take it as something better than nothing, but couldn't pretend to be happy about it.

They started off, once again, the goal neither any closer or any farther as far as Rodney was concerned. He'd ascertained that they were doomed to walk forever until one of them dropped, as though it wasn't permissible that they all make it home together.

Rodney really hated this planet.

Land features didn't alter that much until midday when the ground dipped in a gradual slope only recognized by the suddenly easier effort. The kind of easy effort that only came with heading downhill. With it came noise, the first heard in days beyond heavy breathing and twitchy branches; a distant rushing sound like... like...

Like water. A river to be exact that Rodney was soon able to spot through the trees. Wild rapids churning frothy white around slick rocks and a waterfall crashing in a spray down a not-so-gentle incline gouged in the side of a cliff-face. It was a scenic sight at a distance, then they arrived at the shore.

"Well isn't this just a kick in the ass," Rodney muttered. He didn't want to say how wide the river was without proper measurement, but it looked pretty damn wide. And the only way across was rock-hopping over slick stones, most of which were glittering with frost on their dry surfaces.

McKay looked at the others. "Anyone happen to bring an inflatable raft?"

"We want to cross the river, McKay," John said, sounding breathless and not because of the awe-inspiring waterfall, "not ride it."

Ronon let their supply bag drop to rummage through it until tugging out the coil of rope provided by their former hunters. "McKay, you take the supplies across. I'll help Teyla and Sheppard."

Rodney looked from the river to his two team-mates leaning against each other for support and warmth, and felt the blood rush from his face. "Uh, shouldn't we map out a trail or something? Establish which rocks will be easier to jump to?"

Ronon wrapped the middle of the rope around his waist. "That's why you go first. If you can make it, then John and Teyla can make it. If you can't, we turn back and find another way."

"Uh-huh. And you going first to find the easiest way would be so much harder," Rodney sniped.

It was Sheppard who replied. "It would mean being separated."

Ronon nodded as he tied one end of the rope around Teyla. "With a river between us. It's more important now than ever that we stick close together. We're too easy to pick off alone." The other end of the rope was looped around John.

Rodney looked back at the churning, gnashing, pulverizing arctic gray river and shivered. "Yeah, piece of cake." He picked up the sack, hefting it over his shoulder, locking his knees to keep the weight of it from bringing him down. A weight added to when Ronon draped Sheppard's and Teyla's blankets over his other shoulder.

McKay gritted his teeth. "Yes, very helpful, thank you. And for the record I will not be held responsible for whatever happens to get wet. Should I happen to fall in..."

"I'll dive in and get you," Ronon interjected. Surprisingly enough, it was actually rather comforting to hear. Until was added a gruff, "Now go already." Which effectively ruined the moment.

Grunting a non-committal swear, Rodney adjusted his burden more comfortably and approached the shore. The rocks, for the most part, were wide and relatively even. The rock closest to land was ten feet down the shore and only needing a step to reach. The next was the one requiring a hop, and the next. But so far so good. A quick glance behind showed Rodney Ronon leading the way pausing to reach out and take Teyla's then Sheppard's arm and help them over.

Their path was erratic, taking them up the river then down it, zig-zagging from rock to rock. At one point Rodney was forced to back track then choose between the lesser of two jumps both about three feet distanced. Tying one blanket around his waist, the other his chest, and hugging the bag to him to better his balance, Rodney took a fortifying breath that didn't help, stepped back and ran forward in a short leap to the next boulder. He came to a staggering stop on his toes at the edge, body jerking back and forth like those stupid bobble-toys until he finally stumbled back to the safety of the rock's center.

McKay took a moment to reclaim his breath and a steadier heart beat. A second glance back revealed the going slower for the others, which was odd seeing as how they weren't the ones carrying anything. Shaking his head in exasperation, McKay looked ahead and pressed on.

The next leap was a shorter distance but precarious being closer to the water and ice-slicked. Rodney wasn't given the chance to regain his balance and had to hop to the next rock before his feet could give out from under him. The rest of the way was smooth sailing, four more short leaps to the shore where McKay dumped the supplies exhaling a noisy breath of relief.

"Yeah, piece of freakin' cake." He arched his spine, working out the cramps, before turning back to the river. The others hadn't even made the big leap yet except for Ronon. Teyla jumped first, then Sheppard, all three of them crowded dangerously on the one rock with the slicked rock still to go.

They were going to need some help. Free of being a pack-mule, Rodney hopped lightly back over the safer stones. "Hey, guys! Guys! You need to watch out for the next one, it's..."

Teyla jumped the short distance just as she was about to lose her balance and slipped, flying backwards onto the rock slamming her head on the surface with a sharp crack. Then she rolled, tumbling into the water to be swept away like a discarded doll.

Rodney's heart seized in his chest. All three men screamed, "Teyla!"

The rope snapped taunt unblanacing Ronon to yank him into the water after, which pulled on Sheppard slamming him chest-first into the rock with a cry of alarm and pain. Skinny fingers scrabbled over the rock's surface until finding a grip that slowed the rest of his body entering the water.

"No!" Rodney shrieked constricted by a terror he'd only felt once, and that had been when he woke inside a wraith cocoon. He leaped to Sheppard just as the pilot slipped shoulder high into the river. McKay grabbed his wrist with his good hand and pulled. John grunted, louder and louder until it turned into a scream of pain. Rodney forced himself to block it out and focus on pulling. He heaved with everything he had and even then only managed an inch. He could see Ronon pulling Teyla to him, hugging her close in one arm. With the other arm he inched his way up the rope against a current that kept trying to pull him under. Every time he did go under, or Teyla, or both of them, Rodney forgot to breathe.

All the while John whimpered and swore, his other pale hand clutching McKay's pant-leg in a death grip that shook.

The next Ronon surfaced he was right behind John, forced to use him as an anchor to move around until he was able to grab some rock. With the rope slack Rodney heaved dragging Sheppard's drenched body out of the water, then Teyla's by the collar of her shirt. Ronon moved further around the rock until the water was pushing him against it.

"Get Teyla to shore!" he gasped. "I'll bring Sheppard."

Rodney, nodding rigidly, heart pounding faster than he could breathe, gathered Teyla into his arms and hopped back to stable, dry land. The moment his foot touched sandy beach he lowered Teyla to grab a blanket and cover her giving her a little dignity as he removed her clothes.

As he tugged Teyla's shirt off from under the blanket, he came to the sickening realization that her chest wasn't rising and falling. She wasn't breathing.

"Damn it!" he squeaked, hauling her upright to lean against his shoulder. He pounded on her back with his palm. "Breathe. Come on, breathe, now!" Harder and harder, each thud hollow and inarguably bruising. Then, finally, Teyla's body convulsed, water flying from her mouth riding a choked cough. Rodney breathed out on a whimper and gentled his pounding to patting until choked coughs became natural, and the natural coughs died down.

Ronon arrived with Sheppard just as he finished.

The two men hobbled up drunkenly. "We need to find shelter," Ronon rasped. Then his eyes rolled into the back of his head and he collapsed, bringing Sheppard with him.

Rodney's heart stopped. He froze, staring at the two crumpled bodies. "Oh no. Oh hell no! No, no, no, no, this cannot be happening! Please let this not be happening!" He shifted over to them, checking pulses. "Please, please, please..."

Sheppard shifted at his touch with a groan, lifting his head blinking groggy as though he'd only been napping. He looked down at the ground, brow furrowed thoughtfully. "Did I pass out?"

Rodney's entire body shuddered and he giggled hysterically in relief that warred with tenacious panic. "You had a sympathy faint with Ronon." He grabbed the emaciated man under the armpits to pull him into sitting and tossed him a blanket. Get your clothes off and wrap up while I (oh gosh) _strip_ Ronon."

John squinted in perplexity. "Strip?"

Rodney relentlessly tugged the Satedan's shirt off. "Ronon. And if you say anything about this to him I'm going to say it was all you and that you're just trying to cover your own ass."

Sheppard, obviously two bushels short of a barrel in the info-processing portion of his brain, deepened his squint before shrugging nonchalantly and wrapping the blanket around himself before pulling off his shirt. All three were shaking hard, John barely able to slip the sodden clothes off.

As Rodney wrapped Ronon in a third blanket he simultaneously searched their surroundings for a hollow or bushes or...

He looked at the cliff. A cave, there had to be a cave. Thrusting the wet and probably non-functional blaster into Sheppard's shaking hands, Rodney scrabbled into a charge toward the cliff-face. He ripped brown vines from their moorings and parted bare shrubs that stung his hands with thorns and twigs.

"Come on," Rodney breathed. "Gotta be a cave, gotta, gotta... damn it!" He kicked at the rock and pain shimmied up his leg. Skipping around for a minute or two, muttering curses, the pain faded and he limped doggedly onward, farther and farther from the others.

It wasn't until he rounded the bend that he found it in all it's glory – a big-ass entrance to a big-ass cave. The kind of cave that you would have to pay five bucks to enter back on earth. Rodney's heart fluttered bringing more hysterical giggles bubbling up into his throat. "Yes. Yes!" He ran back, high and skittish on exuberant adrenaline.

"F-f-f-ind s-s-s-something?" Sheppard asked as soon as he returned.

"Hell yeah," Rodney said, grabbing the pilot by the arm and pulling him to his feet. He had Sheppard lean against a tree as he maneuvered Teyla one-armed up then over his shoulder, then moved to let John use him as a crutch as they hobbled to the cave. The entrance inclined into a sort of amphitheater littered with rocks and boulders of brown-gray and veins of sky-blue quartz. Rodney set Teyla then Sheppard down behind a nice large cluster of boulders that would sufficiently hide them from anyone deciding to take a peek inside. With the two safely ensconced, Rodney ran back for Ronon.

The Satedan (still blissfully out) might have been several pounds lighter but that didn't make him a light-weight. Rodney had no choice but to drag him by the blanket, which was just as much hell on his back as carrying Teyla had been. And it was taking too long.

"You picked a fine time," Rodney grunted, "to give into exhaustion." The going was painful, his heart laboring, the air rubbing his throat and lungs raw. By the time he reached the cave he was stumbling, and by the time he got Ronon into their little shelter his legs gave out and he collapsed against the nearest boulder, giving himself a moment to recall how to breathe.

Rodney's head lolled to the side to check on Sheppard and Teyla. His eyes popped wide at the small fire licking up a pathetic pile of twigs and thin branches. He looked at Sheppard also leaning against a boulder. John smiled wearily.

"Bushes," he said, "just outside the cave. This was all I could get."

"How'd you light it?"

Sheppard nudged two rocks with his hand. Rodney nodded not wanting to expend any more energy, except that he had to. He leaned forward tugging and yanking Ronon closer to the fire, opening the front of the blanket for the heat to absorb into his chest. Sheppard had apparently done the same for Teyla, keeping the opening just above her breasts rather than at or below. As long as the heat reached her skin that was all that mattered. She also had a strip of cloth tied around her head.

They would need more wood. In the meantime, what they had would do.

Rodney stared long and hard at Sheppard, noticing the way the thin man was holding his quivering arm to his chest. Oh, gosh, his arm, his wrist, still wrapped in now-sodden bandages. McKay had forgotten he wasn't a loner in the injured-limb club. Sheppard had done a good job at ignoring that particular injury. And neither limb nor flickering firelight hid the massive bruise spreading on his chest. He had hit that rock pretty hard.

Rodney's body protested with aches and pains as he scooted himself around their enclosure to sit next to Sheppard. He wagged his fingers in the general direction of Sheppard's injuries. "I, uh, should probably take a look."

Sheppard didn't respond, but there was a look in his eyes. Rodney couldn't really describe it: a hard look, maybe? Dark look? Nervous? Or perhaps all of the above. His good hand tightened his hold on the blanket as though subconsciously afraid it would be snatched from him.

Rodney sighed, so tired it was almost too easy to give into snapping at Sheppard at what he wanted to see as vanity. Except he'd witnessed the condition of that body beneath the clothes, seen it and tried as often as he could not to think about it. Too much abuse and pain and horror heaped onto that frail frame to consider. Crap, he couldn't even begin to imagine what it was like for Sheppard.

McKay leaned his aching head against the cool, rough, glittering surface of the rock. "I've already seen what there is to see. I was there when that crazy healer woman was doing her voodoo, remember?"

Obviously not. Actually, Sheppard had probably been too out of it to realized he'd had an audience.

Swallowing, tilting his own head back as though not wanting to watch, Sheppard held his arm out for Rodney to look over. He tried to be gentle as he prodded, wincing in sympathy when Sheppard winced. He removed the wet cloth revealing barely healed abrasions and, thankfully, no lump of skin covering misaligned bone. McKay tried his best to re-wrap the arm, but between trying not to hurt Sheppard and trying to make the bindings tight with one hand, he doubted he was succeeding.

"Need a sling or something?" he asked.

Sheppard shook his head. "S'more sprained than broken."

"Maybe even worse, now," Rodney said. He pointed at John's chest. "What about...?"

With a twisted look of disgust, Sheppard squirmed tugging the blanket until it was bunched around his stomach. Beside the bruises there were two bright red abrasions on either side of him as though the rope had gotten caught on his sharply protruding floating ribs. Was that even possible? No, Rodney remembered Ronon having tied the rope pretty tight so it wouldn't slip off.

Good, because the other possibility was just... _wrong_. And weird.

Rodney would have to clean those, which meant he would have to go and refill the water skin. For now he leaned in close studying the bruises on Sheppard's chest. It would likely be inevitable that he would have to prod a few ribs, an avoidance he prolonged for the sake of prolonging. It was disturbing enough having to see the majority of Sheppard's skeleton. Just the thought of deliberately having to feel those bones was making him slightly queasy.

"Having trouble breathing or anything?" he asked.

"If I breathe too deep," Sheppard said. "It kind of cramps. Not too bad, though. They're just cracked."

Rodney sat back. "You sure?"

John smiled wryly. "I've become very acquainted with the difference between cracked and broken."

McKay nodded, clearing his throat to block an exhale of relief. "Okay, then. Cracked they are." Although he might drop a line to Ronon about it when the big man woke. The runner was better at this kind of crap, anyway.

That left the abrasions. Rodney poured a little water onto a rag, held it over the flames for a few minutes (doubting it would make a difference) poured more water and dabbed at the slick wounds. Sheppard hissed with a recoil of his sides at each touch of the cloth. The minute he was finished, John pulled the blanket back over his shivering shoulders.

"Think I'll live?" the colonel asked.

Rodney tossed the rags into the fire since bloody cloth didn't have much of a use. " After everything I put into saving your skinny ass? You'd better. How's Teyla's head, by the way?"

"Bumped," John said. He looked at Teyla with unmasked worry. "I don't know if it's a concussion."

Rodney's own concern twisted in his gut. "We should try to wake her."

Sheppard merely nodded, too worn and frozen to be much use except as someone to talk to. Rodney would have told him to sleep if he'd been sure Sheppard would wake up again. He vaguely recalled Carson having told them something about hypothermics needing to stay awake. Which meant also waking Ronon.

Rodney went for Teyla first. He placed his hand on her shoulder and gently shook. "Teyla?" When he was graced with no response, he shook harder. "Teyla? Come on, you need to wake up. Nap time's over and some of us need reassurances before we give into a panic attack. Teyla!" He patted her face, rubbed her arm, then his knuckles just below her throat as he'd seen Carson do one time when Sheppard wouldn't wake up.

A soft groan brushed from Teyla's lips. She shifted her head, eyes opening to slits. "R'dny?"

Relief nearly melted Rodney into a puddle of useless flesh. He slumped, exhaling a sharp huff of misty air. "Yes, Rodney McKay at your medical service. Please don't scare me like that again."

"Ap'logize," she murmured.

"Apology accepted. Now how do you feel? Anything hurt? Are you dizzy, nauseas...?"

"Tired."

"Kind of figured that. Just stay with me for a little longer, here. You need to tell me how you feel beyond tired. Are you in pain? How's your head?"

Teyla's head shifted and she grimaced. "Hurts."

Rodney lifted the bandage to check the wound on the back of her skull. Blood had matted sticky in her hair but the wound itself had stopped bleeding. He felt the goose-egg, inciting a whimper from Teyla.

"You know this means I'm going to have to wake you every so often," he said.

Teyla didn't respond. She had drifted back to sleep. Rodney checked her pulse one more time for assurance before adjusting the bandage then moving on to Ronon. The Satedan was a little more responsive and recalcitrant about it. A few pats on the cheek had him rocking his head from side to side trying to shake off the offending hand. When that didn't work, he tried to swat it way limpidly. It was like trying to rouse a drunk bear, a risk Rodney wasn't inclined to push any further.

Assured that his team mates would live for the time being, Rodney took a few moments to rest in silence against a boulder before forcing his aching body back to its feet. Their supplies were still out there and Rodney figured it safe to say that the locals would be even less giving than the last creep that had almost molested Teyla. Bastard.

Before slogging off to get their things, Rodney tore a few more branches from the local shrubs and gathered fallen twigs and sticks to toss onto the fire. It wasn't a long trek back to the river, it had only seemed long when dragging unconscious bodies. He filled the water flask then hauled wet clothes, pelts, and their food sack back to the cave. After dumping it within their little rocky nest, spreading the wet clothes out to dry, he went back out for more sticks to keep the fire going.

Once a nice pile was gathered, he expended the rest of his energy getting everyone comfortable by placing folded pelts under their heads, helping John to lay down, then wrapped himself up in a blanket and slumped to the ground.

That was it. He was done playing wild mountain man for the day. He placed a folded pelt behind his head to rest it against the boulder. Sleep would have been lovely right about now, but since Ronon was so adamant that they were still in danger, he settled for staring blankly across the fire. He was sitting at Teyla's head so he could wake her when needed.

Firelight flashing amber off hazel eyes pulled Rodney's gaze to Sheppard's. The colonel was grinning at him like a drunkard.

McKay scowled. "What?"

A pale, bony shoulder poked out of the blanket in a shrug. "Nothing."

"Nothing my ass. What is it?"

Sheppard's smile softened. "You didn't complain."

"Complain about what?" If Sheppard was making fun of him then he was getting a slice of that Aspirin-onion to eat tonight.

"Any of it. Any of this." John gestured at their surroundings with a limp hand that flopped back to the floor and slipped into the blanket. "If this were the Boy Scouts you'd have yourself a couple of badges."

Rodney huffed wearily. "If this were the Boy Scouts we'd have smores and a cooler full of food."

"We have a bag with food."

"But no smores. If you're trying to say I did a good job or something then just say it. I'm too tired to play."

Sheppard's smile pulled wider. "You did a really good job, McKay."

Rodney had opened himself up for that one and hadn't even realized it. The subsequent warm fuzzies and an ache of discomfort battled it out in his chest. Rodney loved praise just as much as the next guy (he would also admit to liking it more than most). But this was different, always had been. There was the praise you wanted, the praise you strove for, then the praise you really wanted but would never admit to even to yourself.

McKay couldn't say when kudos from the scientific community became less important than a clap on the shoulder by a grunt or wild-man for practicing basic survival skills. Life was funny that way, just not ha-ha funny. He was starting to get a better understanding of what it was like, and what it meant, to be within the inner circle of the popular crowd. Yes, the popularity was by default with them being the alpha team. Still, if this was Highschool then Sheppard's team would be at the top of the clique food chain.

And Rodney thought he finally had it figured why. Dumb as most of the popular kids had been, they had still known things, things Rodney couldn't begin to fathom. The best word choices, best pick-up lines, swears, jokes, songs. The guys knew how to talk in ways that had girls melting into puddles of goo, and girls dress in ways that had boys doing the same. They knew the crap that would mean nothing in the far future, yet had meant everything in the now.

With Sheppard, Ronon and Teyla, what they knew _did_ matter - in the now and even in the future. How to survive, how to stay strong, and the right things to say that will always be the right things to say. Practical knowledge that wasn't crap and that, sometimes, had a way of making what Rodney knew feel useless. Not that it was useless, just useless in their current situation.

So, yeah, it felt good when he could accomplish something he thought only his three teammates could accomplish, and to be recognized for it by them and them alone.

Because of him, they were alive. He liked that even better and couldn't help a bit if a smug smirk about it.

Which he dropped on looking from teammate to teammate wrapped up like caterpillars. Too thin, to exhausted, too battered. Talking had apparently sucked the last dredges of energy from Sheppard because he was out, breathing softly, shivering periodically. Ronon was curled tight into the blanket and Teyla... Teyla was too still. Rodney leaned to the side and tapped her face until she stirred muttering incoherently.

Rodney hated seeing them like this.

Then it hit him like a stack of bricks. What had happened, had almost happened, and the realization that at this very moment he was in charge of keeping all of them alive. Dread coiled in his belly until he was gulping back slivers of burning bile.

He had almost lost them to a single event, one stupid measly accident.

The dread didn't last long thanks to exhaustion. All remaining strength went into staying awake and, when he remembered, waking Teyla. He felt oddly alone in a too large world that made him wonder if this is what it felt like for a parent protecting their children. Because he was also feeling oddly possessive of the three people around him, and he wouldn't have relinquished his vigil even if it had been Beckett or Lorne offering to take over.

Sheppard stirred in a rustle of blankets, coughed lightly twice, then settled.

----------------------------------

When Sheppard woke, Rodney took that as a sign to wake the others for a communal feeding. It was getting late, the outside going dusky and crisp, and the crisis of the day had made them all miss lunch.

McKay, using their newly acquired knives heated over the fire to kill all germs, sliced a blue looking fruit that smelled like an apple, strips of jerky and the last of the bread into as equal as possible portions. He handed the first portion to Sheppard then barely dodged a slap to the face on waking Ronon to give him his. Since the taller man was more rested than McKay, he had the runner lift Teyla upright to wake her enough to eat. She nibbled on the fruit and nothing else.

Sheppard offered to take first watch, Ronon second for the rest off the night so Rodney could get some rest. Since their clothes were still damp and probably going to stay that way for a few days, it was safe to assume they weren't going to be leaving anytime soon.

Which may or may not be a good thing. Rodney woke to his arm throbbing unmercifully and what he had first taken to be inhuman moaning. Ronon was sitting Indian style by the fire tossing on more wood from the now increased pile. Rodney lifted his head trying to pinpoint the noise.

Ronon looked at him, then tilted his head toward the cave entrance. "Weather's gone bad."

Cold air slithered between the boulders to brush across the skin of Rodney's neck. He shivered. On the other side of the fire Sheppard coughed a lot less quietly.

The next morning Teyla's concussion finally reared its ugly self in the form of puking. Not a lot, but enough to leave her miserable and denying food for most of the day. Sheppard was doing a lot more coughing and invisible hammers wouldn't stop pounding on Rodney's arm. Outside was hidden behind a solid wall of wind-whipped snow.

When night came again, they resumed their usual sleeping arrangement. Ronon took first watch. Teyla was placed on the outside to be closest to the fire and in case she needed to throw up. That put Rodney behind Sheppard, all three wrapped individually since it was an unspoken opinion that sleeping in a nude huddle (kind of nude since Rodney still had his clothes on) was pushing it.

McKay woke again to harsh coughing convulsing the skinny body next to him. So harsh and convulsive it dislodged the blanket exposing one shoulder and a heavily scarred upper back.

Rodney was all ready to cover Sheppard when, instead, on a whim, he inched close enough to put his ear to the other man's back. The skin was warm, a little clammy, the bones knobby and disturbing to feel against his ear. McKay twisted his lips in a grimace at the contact but forced himself to hold it as he listened to Sheppard breathe. Not that he knew what to listen for, although he supposed that the mild crackling sound he was hearing couldn't be counted as harmless. Pulling his ear away, Rodney covered Sheppard back up, tucking the edges tight around him.

Rodney sighed. It was redundant to say this was bad. He said it to himself anyways. This was very, _very_ bad. He tried to go back to sleep against concern and the constant pain in his arm. He almost achieved it when Sheppard stirred, again, choking out a timid whimper. With another sigh, Rodney reached across himself to give Sheppard a weak pat on the back.

"Go back to sleep," he said. Sheppard stilled.

"Wanna take next watch?"

Rodney lifted his head to see Ronon watching him.

"Sure," he said, rolling onto his stomach then pushing himself to his knees. He did his best to keep his arm in place and still the pain ignited as though the one hammer had shattered into many. He bit his lip to hold back a moan as he shuffled over to Ronon rather than expend energy uselessly in standing, and took the proffered blaster. "I think the dunk in the river pissed Sheppard's lungs off."

Ronon nodded, "Thought as much." He stood, moving over to the spot Rodney had just vacated. There he stopped and turned to face McKay with a sagging expression that hid nothing. Rodney couldn't recall a time when he'd seen Ronon that open, that exhausted and nervous. "We'll get them home," he said, less like a promise and more like frayed hope he was clutching too tight to. He then wrapped in his blanket with deliberate motions like he was underwater and settled down beside John.

Rodney watched them sleep, his heart pounding, his gut churning, while outside snow pulverized the ground in a wind-driven onslaught. This was the part where pessimism whispered bitter portent in his ear. It buried him under hopelessness until he couldn't breathe but, damn it, he couldn't let it, not this time.

His eyes burned, stinging, blurring, and he moved fast wiping the moisture away before it fell. He couldn't, he wouldn't. Maybe they were officially screwed. He could no longer really say, not with how far they had come. If they were, well, then, so be it. Because even if they were he could still pretend they weren't. He could still try to hold to hope like Ronon and drag each of them to the gate one at a time if he had to. Never any harm in trying, right?

Crap, he had to at least try. And he would. He would, damn it! They weren't dead yet.

McKay dug the heel of his hand into both eyes until the moisture stopped trying to fall, and then settled in for a long night of staring at the fire and waking Teyla to make sure she remained all right. He would let Sheppard sleep since he needed it.

TBC...

A/N: I think Rodney needs a hug. I'm going to try to get the next chapter done and out sometime next week but make no promises if it ends up being as difficult as the last chapter. But I definitely promise it won't take as long as the last chapter. There's only two chapters left in all. Sheppard's turn then an epilogue.


	8. Chapter 8

A/N: This was a tough chapter.

Ch. 8

Thunder cracked. John snapped his eyes open on hearing its sharp echo like flesh smacking flesh or a dry bone breaking. He blinked against the misty gray gloom, acrid smoke snaking up his nostrils. With a rattling cough that shook his body and cramped his chest, he rolled over to stare at the smoldering black and hell-fire red embers barely radiating any heat.

There was supposed to be a blanket-wrapped body blocking his view. All he saw was the discarded blanket puddled on the floor.

And why the hell was there thunder when it was supposed to be the dead of winter? Unless it was another warming lull. With a pained grunt that turned into more coughing, Sheppard pushed himself upright one-handed and leaning on that hand as he surveyed the cave. He saw more crumpled blankets, scattered pelts, their food bag and that was it. Occam's Razor would have him settling for the rest of the team having gone outside to get wood, water and to watch each other's back. Habitual caution and a rather crappy couple of months wouldn't let him accept simple explanations without proof.

John sucked in a deep breath for a sigh when his lungs caught on an itch forcing more coughs. He let the coughing have its way as he pulled his now-dry clothes to him and dressed beneath the blanket to maintain warmth. Pants, shirt, then coat. It felt good being dressed. Blankets just couldn't cut it as sufficient covering. Too easy for them to open or slip off.

Now that he was properly covered, he untangled himself from the blanket to drape it across his shoulders and tie it off at the throat into a kind of cloak. He tugged on his boots with the knife wrapped in cloth tapping against his ankle, then reached back using the boulder as support to climb his shaky way to his feet. Standing upright gave him a less obstructed view of the cave entrance and the world outside – pure white interrupted by the dark brown, almost black, of the trees. Cold air flowed into John's throat nipping at his lungs for another bout of rough, liquid coughing. He winced at the ache in his intercostals and harsher pain in his ribs.

"Crap," he rasped. Congestion, possible pneumonia - just what they needed because broken bones, exhaustion, concussion and starvation just weren't enough. At least that's how Rodney would put it in all his sardonic glory.

John's heart thudded like a meaty fist against his sternum. He pushed away from the boulder into a shuffle toward the entrance, swinging his arms and clenching and unclenching his fists to get the circulation going. He was worried, hopefully for no reason, but he wasn't going to stop worrying until he happened on one of his team coming back from where ever they had gone.

It was still the dead of winter. You don't get thunder in weather like this.

A thin snow drift stretched a ways inside the cave entrance before melting into slush. Three separate footprints left distinct impressions - the largest on the right, medium the left, and the smallest in the center – before turning into runnels where the snow came to mid-calf. John followed them into the muffled silence of the blanketed forest. His shallow pants streamed clouds in short bursts turning into explosions whenever he coughed. He trudged alongside the path his friends had left, stringy leg muscles and chest burning, until he came to the river.

John hadn't even reached the shore when he stopped.

That hadn't been thunder he heard. The snow, churned up with mud and flecks of red blindingly brilliant against the white, told him as much. Adjacent to the tracks of his team were more tracks, five in all, converging with the three where the snow had been stomped and kicked, then eight tracks in all belonging to the victors leading away their spoils.

It wasn't until Sheppard's lungs demanded air that he realized he wasn't breathing. He sucked in a stuttering breath that erupted into a wet cough that slapped mucus against the back of his throat. He whirled around, legs twisting awkwardly to almost pull him down into the snow.

"Son of a bitch!" he hissed, both pissed and frightened, following the tracks with his eyes. "Damn it!" He burst into a partial run and stumble over the tracks winding around the trees.

They couldn't have gotten too far, not with how recent that thunder... no, gunshot, rifle maybe, had sounded. Unless who ever these people were were anxious to get back home, that meant they would have to stop and camp eventually, tie up their quarry. In the dark, with his knife, John could free his team easily.

Sheppard was forced to slow when his leg tried to give out on him. He sneered vindictively at his own decrepit body. Up until now, he'd been doing a pretty good job of ignoring it. Not much he could do about it otherwise. But screw the pretense because he hated it. Not his appearance, not the weakness, but knowing that by the time he found his friends, all the trudging and trying to keep up will have worn him down to a frayed thread turning him useless. He would drop and have to crawl the rest of the way to free them. And then what? Let them carry him? Let him slow them down?

Keeping in consideration that he didn't get caught first. With all the coughing he was doing, he didn't see how it was not possible.

John shook his head fiercely. He would make it possible. Even suffocate if he had to. His team was not going back to that dump of a city just to start this hell all over again, end of story.

The resolution, anger, and fear maintained a steady stream of adrenaline burning in his blood, but it was water-downed, just as depleted as his muscles. He wheezed, coughed, and stumbled staining his sleeves and pants with snow that soaked through the thin cloth. His heart hammered and it hurt, tightening his already too-tight chest.

He should have been the one taken, which Rodney would call idiotic heroics to deny its harsh logics. Sheppard was the weakest. If anyone should have been left behind it should have been Ronon or Rodney, even Teyla. Hell, all three. Okay, so the latter was nothing more than wishful thinking that would have never happened. Sheppard wasn't worth anything, which was just more harsh logic. He was nothing more than a body to waste a bullet on, maybe not even that much. So he was either overlooked for that very reason or, still sticking with logic, Ronon, Rodney and Teyla had kept their mouths shut about him.

Of course they would keep their mouths shut about him. But if they thought he would continue on to the gate without them, they had another thing coming.

Why the hell didn't he wake up when he heard the "thunder"? And why the hell did he sleep so long? If he'd just been awake, dressed, gone sooner...

_Then what? Get caught is what._

John's foot snagged on a hidden root tripping him to his knees. He buried his already numb hands into the snow, pushing himself back up.

He was terrified. What if his team was deemed worthless? What if they were nothing more than bodies to waste a bullet on? This shouldn't be happening. Someone was always on watch, should have been on watch. They had the blaster, they had knives, they weren't utterly helpless.

The cold air chafed John's sore throat raw until every breath was like sandpaper. Thick saliva slicked his mouth tasting salty and metallic. He flicked his tongue over chapped lips coating them in that saliva, drying them until on the next lick he tasted blood.

Why wasn't he awake? Why didn't they wake him? Why, why, why...?

_Because crap happens, that's why._ He almost laughed at himself over the need to cry; a good hysterical chuckle that would only turn into a sob, which would lead to more coughing. Now wasn't the time to panic, but it was so hard not to. It was a different kind of panic; not the heart-pounding cocktail of terror and anger that had driven him to attack the creep who'd kept trying to molest him. Not the mindless animal-wild terror that had narrowed his world to instinctual self-preservation in the mines. What he felt now could crush him, was suffocating him, and stung harsh as a raw wound.

Stepping through the gate without his team? No. It wasn't going to happen. He either stepped with them or died with them.

Even... go back with them. Even start this all over with them if it meant living or dying together. After all they'd been through, how far they had come, everything they did for him...

Ronon had carried him. _Carried_ him damn it! Teyla had almost given of herself so they could eat. Rodney nearly killed himself to keep them safe.

Moisture burned in Sheppard's eyes, blurring the world into smears of brown against clean white. He scrubbed the moisture away furiously with the back of his shaking hand. He tripped, stumbled, but caught himself on the nearest tree and stayed upright.

They would step through together or die together.

John came to where the land began to slope just on the other side of a hillock. The tracks skirted the mound heading down into what must have been a valley or large ravine. From where he stood, Sheppard couldn't see much even through the thin and bare trees. He knew he was probably going to regret this but he needed to get his bearings, see what could be seen. He scurried up the hill, feet trying to slip out from under him.

At the top, the view afforded thunderstruck him. It was a valley the land sloped into, a massive valley of trees bordering an open field that stretched beyond sight to the distant blue mountains. And like a blemish on an otherwise flawless white surface was a lone... _something _rising out of the ground. John squinted. It wasn't large enough to be a structure, seemed rather flat, round... His eyes widened.

_No freakin' way. _But what else could it possibly be? What else do you find sitting in a wide open field, alone, with nothing to obstruct a ship wanting to come through?

The stargate.

"You've gotta be kidding me," John breathed, and this time allowed a quiet, at-ropes-end chuckle. So close, so damn freakin' close!

And just to the right of where he could see the 'gate, coiling not too far from where he stood, were columns of light-gray smoke. John's heart fluttered fast and wild in a surge of sudden hope that made his head spin. He half-clamored/half-slid back down the hill, jumping onto the trail and following it the rest of the way to his team.

---------------------------------------------

It was very probable that this wasn't going to be all that easy. And getting more probable by the second.

The slavers' camp wasn't so much a camp as a gypsy shanty-town of barrel wagons, beaked pony-camels, and laundry getting itself a nice smoky flavor as it hung over fires to dry. The subservients were easy to distinguish in their plain-brown robes scurrying from wagon to slaver. Slavers lounged in wooden chairs or on wagon steps, men and women resembling moving mounds of coats and animal pelts. John had to wonder if their last attackers had been kin of this bunch.

He didn't see his team anywhere. Then again, he couldn't see much else beyond what was at the forefront from his place of concealment behind a thick-trunked tree.

It was common sense, if these people really were professionals, to have their quarry stashed in the center of camp for easier watch. John gnawed his lower lip, taking in what he could, processing it, then organizing it into a plan. A plan that required he wait until twilight to move, which was a necessary evil at this point anyways. The trek had exhausted him, and considering he'd skipped out on breakfast in his panic, he would need to muster every last scrap of energy he had left. Which meant resting. Since he hadn't heard any more gun fire and the slavers didn't appear eager to pack up and leave, he had time.

Crap, he hoped he had time.

Shivering, John hunkered deeper into his blanket, hoping mind over matter wasn't bull and thinking himself one with the tree was keeping him relatively invisible. The blanket was practically the same color.

Dusk came fast bringing twilight early to the woods, turning everything into a single mass color of blue gray and darker blue gray. With the deeper shading came bitingly colder air that Sheppard could swear was freezing the mucus pooling in his lungs, making it harder to quiet his coughs. He kept a wad of blanket pressed to his mouth to stifle the noise as he watched the slavers congregate to the fires.

John made his move. Rising slowly on stiffened legs, he scurried hunch-backed from tree to tree, then to the nearest clothes line with a cloak. He grabbed a smoke-scented damp one and slipped into it covering blanket and all, lifted the hood, bowed his head and walked straight into the camp with all false humility.

It was a lively place, this camp, especially with the slavers getting themselves thoroughly hammered. Servants grabbed clay pitchers of a urine-colored liquid from rickety barely-fighting-gravity tables. John grabbed a pitcher in passing, pouring drinks into who ever had their cup held up for more. When the pitcher emptied he, replaced it and grabbed another, going from cluster to cluster, surreptitiously maneuvering his way to the center of the camp.

Someone screamed: a pained, gutteral, and very familiar squeak of agony. John followed it, pouring as he went. He passed the largest of all the wagons and slopped half the liquid on seeing his team trussed up with four other unfortunates to a pole chained horizontal to the wagon's side.

The scream had been McKay's. Both arms were tied behind his back and a bulky slaver had him by a handful of hair, yanking him hard enough to jerk his body.

"Squeal some more, little _murat_. Come on, squeal," the bruiser sneered.

A small, choked whimper squeezed out of McKay's throat. Beside him, Ronon squirmed, curling his lips back from his teeth in a snarl. This seemed to amuse the crowd at the fire more than Rodney's terror when their laughter burst louder. Teyla was slumped against Ronon, bleary eyed and a little green.

John's heart thundered and his hands shook.

"That big one's going to have to go into the cage wagon," bruiser said. "The pellet we put in his shoulder barely stopped him."

As John finally started pouring drinks, his eyes drifted over to Ronon and the bloodied bandage around his shoulder. The Satedan's pissed-off demeanor said he was doing a good job of ignoring the pain. His sickly complexion tattled that his body wasn't doing so well.

The bruiser kicked at Rodney's thigh to make him wince before returning to the fire. He dropped heavy onto a blanket on the ground, lifting a wooden cup to be filled.

John didn't know what the hell he was thinking. Actually, he wasn't even thinking, just acting, going with the excuse of weakening arms when he slopped some of the drink onto bruiser's arm. Fatigue wasn't far from the truth, but the majority of Sheppard's shaking was from increasing rage.

Bruiser recoiled with a startled yelp that morphed into a snarl of fury. He rose, towering tall and heavy over John, then knocked the pitcher from John's weaker grasp.

"You clumsy little idiot!" Bruiser barked, and shoved Sheppard to the ground. The snow cushioned most of his fall enough for him to swallow back a grunt of pain. Which he ended up releasing anyways when Bruiser gave him a hard boot to his damaged ribs.

John curled into himself, ducking his head, forcing out pathetic apologies like the good servant he was pretending to be. He rolled to his hands and knees to scuttle backward only to have himself pulled to his feet by the collar of the robe.

Bruiser yanked his hood back making Sheppard's cringe involuntary. Even through the drunken chuckling he caught the hissing gasp from behind him.

It was hard not to look into Bruiser's eyes, meet smug superiority with red-hot defiance just for the sake of pissing off his "betters". Back with that molesting bastard, then with the freaks at the mine, defiance was all John had had left that they couldn't take away no matter how much they beat him.

But right here, right now, was something that far outweighed sticking it to the man. So Sheppard kept his head bowed and his eyes to the ground, going for the blank stare of one resigned to their fate.

"Hey, Keff, which one is he?" Bruiser asked, shaking John until his teeth clacked.

A red-headed man with a prickly beard shrugged sloppily, completely soused. "I don know," he slurred. "Why I always gotta keep track of 'em?"

A big-boned blond woman with a large chest hiccuped and giggled. "He's got pretty eyes. Bet he's got a nice face under that beard." She swayed to her feet and staggered to him, grabbing his chin with thick fingers to lift his head and turn it while Bruiser held him in place.

"Scrawny bit he is," she said, then added with a leer flashing blackened teeth, "but it does make 'em easier to handle. And I really like his eyes."

Bruiser shoved John into the woman's crushing embrace. With a cackling laugh of triumph, she dragged him to the fire, dropping back beside the red-head, and wrapped one thick arm around Sheppard's shoulders.

Sheppard couldn't even begin to ignore his physical state now. Strong fingers dug through the cloak, blanket, shirt and, of course, skin to press against bone with bruising force. John wouldn't be able to take her, but wished like crazy he could at least pretend he was capable. He knew what she had planned and it was simultaneously pissing him off and scaring the hell out of him.

He'd made a promise to himself: Promised he wouldn't give in. Promised he wouldn't let himself be retaken. Promised he'd die before he did, except for the monumental matter of his life no longer the only one at stake. Sheppard's eyes wandered over to Ronon, Teyla and Rodney staring at him in wide-eyed incredulity. Even Teyla who was no longer looking so green. John lifted his shoulder in an abashed shrug. Then swallowed, hooded his eyes, and shook his head resolutely.

It wasn't going to end like this.

The festivities wore on until the slavers could barely even sit up. It was only when the fire started to die down with no one willing to stir it that folk began dispersing to their various wagons. The cold air and smoke incited Sheppard's liquid-lined lungs into a non-stop coughing jag. His soon-to-be molester didn't even notice. His team did, incredulity and anger shifting to concern and, in the case of Ronon, deeper anger. The Satedan's gaze spoke volumes. _I'll break their necks, every one of them._

A short, thickly built man with dirty blond hair stood, scratching his belly with one hand while jabbing his thumb over his shoulder with the other.

"Think I'll have a bit with the girl in case she ends up dead in the morning. Wouldn't want her wasted, now would we?" he said with an inebriated smirk.

The woman dragged John to his feet to begin tugging him along away from the fire and his friends. "Then I'll be having my bit as well," she said with a happy little titter.

A glance over the shoulder had John's heart plummeting to his feet. The man wobbled his way toward Teyla, barely avoiding Ronon's lashing legs when he crouched to untie her.

"Teyla," John rasped. Terror squeezed him until he could barely breathe. He continued to watch, even as he moved away, Teyla being dragged into the wagon the others were tied to. Then another wagon blocked his view when the woman turned.

John was suddenly shoved forward sprawling partway into the back of a wagon.

"Inside, go now!" the woman barked as she kicked and shoved him along. She slammed the door behind them and staggered, weaving, to the bed at the very back. Clothes, pots, and other junk were shoved off the top for her to rip back the covers. She turned, swaying, and pointed an unsteady finger at John.

"C-clothes, off," she hiccuped, "now."

John rose slowly, grasping at precious seconds to scan the junk-cluttered interior. Plenty of pots, pans, and hard paraphernalia to work with. With a false cringe of humility, Sheppard turned right facing a counter covered with dishes, food-bits, and more pots and pans of heavy metal. He removed the cloak, staggering purposefully into the counter, bending at the middled to grab the nearest pot handle.

John whipped around with the pot raised over his head, and paused.

The woman lay half on the bed, snoring loud enough to rival a mack truck. Lowering the pot, John blinked in amazement, then shrugged setting the pot back on the counter. He grabbed his knife from his boot and crept to the door, peering out the small window into the dark. No fires and most of the lamps swinging above the wagon doors were guttering out.

John eased the door open wide enough to slip through, shutting it just as carefully behind him. He pressed himself close to the wagon keeping to the shadows, slinking like a fox toward the hen house by darting from wagon to wagon. He dove beneath a wagon when a pair of drunks stumbled in too close belting out a song too slurred to make out. Sheppard shimmied on his stomach to the other side enough to see the reborn fire and Ronon's amber-outlined silhouette struggling in futility against his bonds. There was only one guard sitting on a stool with his back leaning against the wheel of the very wagon Sheppard was hiding under.

The bastard had Ronon's gun in his lap. Apparently, having control of the weapon gave him confidence enough to allow himself to start nodding off, head bobbing toward his chest, cheeks red from cold and alcohol. Sheppard curled his lip in disgust. Superiority complexes tended to be the downfall of most societies. John would have been more surprised that the slavers' slaves hadn't revolted already, but he'd seen their weakened condition and perpetual looks of terror. The servants were well and truly whipped.

John slithered to the other side of the wagon away from the guard. He scrabbled out making for the other side of the next wagon, hunkering low as he circled his way around to where Teyla was being... John couldn't bring himself to think about it. The door to the wagon was drenched in shadows. A quick glance showed the guard dozing. John pulled his gaze from the man to the small square of window in the door, stretching enough to peer inside.

"Ga, just had to go and be a fighter now, didn't you?" the blond gorilla grunted, wiping blood from his nose. Teyla was crouched on the bed like a leopard ready to pounce, body so taut that even in the pour light John could see it was shaking. The gorilla was facing the counter, taking his sweet type digging through the crap until he produced a cloth to wipe his nose. While his right hand clean up, his left inched toward a polished wooden bludgeon partially hidden beneath more cloth-scraps.

"No worry," gorilla said matter-of-factly. "I like 'em lively." He slipped the bludgeon out from under the cloth to hide it alongside his thick thigh, then turned to Teyla putting his back to the door. "Just need a bit of polishing up, you do."

John moved, opening the door enough to slip in. As gorilla raised the bludgeon, John flowed up behind straightening to his full height. In a fluid move his weakened body could barely pull off, he whipped his arm around the guy's neck and jerked it back pulling the knifes' edge across the thick skin. He covered gorilla's mouth with his other hand as the man gurgled and choked, dropping to his knees before finally slumping lifelessly to the floor. John was nearly pulled down on top of him attempting to slow the body's descent.

Sheppard was a soldier. He killed when he had to, when there was no other choice. He was glad to say he wasn't jaded enough toward it to feel any kind of joy, let alone a lack of remorse. He didn't like having to kill but neither did he dwell on it.

Sometimes he did feel relief, like now. Wiping the knife clean on gorilla's clothes, he looked up to see Teyla staring at him just as relieved and teary-eyed because of it.

"John," she said, voice broken, and moved forward reaching out to him. John took her hand in a tight grip and leaned forward touching his forehead to hers.

"You all right?" he whispered.

Teyla nodded, her cool skin rubbing against his warmer, clammier skin. "Are you?" she asked with the same tremulous tenor. Her relief encompassed him just as much as the self. It was simply Teyla to care far beyond herself.

John nodded, giving in to his own moment of relief. "Yeah, I'm good. Come on, let's get out of here."

Again more creeping, out of the wagon then around it to lower themselves to the ground and crawl beneath. John wriggled up behind Rodney first. The scientist's harsh breathing could echo, it sounded so loud.

"Rodney," John hissed, "Ronon."

Ronon's body shifted. "Sheppard?"

"Yeah, keep it down. Is the guard asleep?"

"Yeah," Ronon whispered back, gently nudging Rodney with his elbow.

"Good. I'm going to cut you guys lose. When I do, I want you both to roll under the wagon to the other side. Got it?"

"Yeah," the Satedan breathed.

"Rodney first," John said, already sawing through the ropes around Rodney's swollen wrists. As soon as the ropes were lose enough, McKay slipped his arms free to bring them around with a pained sob. John moved on to Ronon, sawing fast until the ropes were weak enough for the Satedan to pull them free. John and Teyla started scooting back out from under the wagon when Ronon darted forward toward the guard.

John's heart shot into his throat and he yelped, "What the hell!"

Ronon prowled quiet as a cat up to the guard, snatched the blaster out of the man's hand, tucked it into the waistband of his pants, then prowled back, dropping to the ground to roll beneath the wagon, Rodney following painfully slow behind. The four crouched in the safety of the darkness, Teyla helping to retie the sling that had been left hanging around McKay's neck.

"Now what?" Ronon asked. "We can't go back to the caves. They'll know to go there and cut us off."

John grinned. "Good thing we're not going back to the caves, then. Follow me. I've got a little surprise for you guys."

John led the way around the wagon, pausing just long enough to slip the hilt of the knife into the hand of the nearest trussed prisoner. "There's a river not far from here, just up the rise, and a cave. Go there, you'll find supplies. Have fun, kids," he said, giving the ragged, bewildered man an encouraging pat on the shoulder.

The team moved as fast as being stealthy would allow, darting from shadow to shadow, ducking beneath wagons when another drunk or drunks stumbled by: some completely wasted, some buzzed but not wasted enough not to cause an uproar the moment they found their prisoners gone. The moment the darkness of the woods were within reach, the four made a crouched dash for the trees, straightening when swallowed by the darkness with only the dim glow of Ronon's blaster to keep them oriented.

"Sheppard!" Rodney hissed loud. "Where are we going?"

John didn't answer. He couldn't waste his breath on words when he needed it for the run. He didn't recall there being much forest between the camp and the clearing, but urgency had a way of increasing distance and time. It felt like they were barely yards from the camp when he felt his strength starting to wane as oxygen burned in his stuffed lungs. He stumbled, and would have fallen if Ronon hadn't caught him, pulling him upright and bearing most of his weight as John fought to breathe against more coughs.

Then they burst out of the woods stumbling over snow-carpeted ground. As Ronon handled Sheppard, Teyla and Rodney leaned up against each other, supporting each other as they kicked through ankle-high snow.

"Sheppard?" Rodney whined.

"Just," John gasped, "keep going. Trust me."

The sky was moonless, the darkness thick enough to feel like cold bodies pressing in around them. John's breath caught and he shivered trying to shove the image out of his mind. He clutched Ronon's arm feeling the warmth of living flesh through the cloth of coat and shirt.

"Not far," he wheezed, and coughed, body convulsing so hard he could barely stay-upright. They slowed from an awkward dash to a practical crawl, like a bad dream where running got you no where, the destination stretching a little farther out of reach with each step. The snow soaked through pant-legs and spilled into shoes to touch vulnerable skin, sharp and painful. The darkness was a maze about to disorient them until their eyes adjusted enough to it to see the misty, jagged shapes of trees...

And something large and round looming closer by agonizing centimeters.

"Almost there," John coughed, tightening his grip on Ronon as the Satedan did the same, because no one was getting left behind.

Behind them, a horn blasted one long, harsh call.

Sheppard snarled, "Son of a bitch!"

They were so close, so damn close to safety, to freedom.

Home. Oh, gosh, they were almost home! Only steps away, closer and closer and closer.

The horn blasted again sounding a hell of a lot nearer. The echo of it faded for Sheppard to hear the thunder of pounding hooves or whatever kind of feet those pony-camels had.

John gritted his teeth against the fire in his quaking legs and packed lungs. Each breath burned his throat and each cough shredded it. Sweat soaked him, the heat of exertion and fever a solid wall against the cold. He could feel his heart struggling, each thump hard enough to jolt his body.

Just a little further. Almost home, almost home...

Rifle fire cracked, forcing all four of them to duck.

Almost home, almost home, just a little further, almost home... John's legs gave out, dropping him to his knees. Ronon pulled him back up and onward, dragging him. John tried, he really did, to get his feet back under him and push forward. He moaned in pain and growled in defiance against himself. His damn body just didn't get it. If he fell, the others would stop to get him. It would slow them down enough for the slavers to catch up. So for them to live, he had to live, to keep going, to at least stay upright so Ronon would have an easier time dragging him.

And, crap, neither did he want to go back. He would, for them, the three trudging through this endless hell with him. For them he'd let the slavers toss him back onto the charnal pit. For them, he'd let them do what he promised himself they would never do.

But only if it came down to it, and it hadn't come down to it yet.

Almost there, almost home. Home. _Please, we want to go home. Let us go home._

Sheppard jerked, heart slamming hard enough to momentarily stop him from breathing, when the gate lit up. His brain screamed wraith until he made out Teyla's slender form in front of the DHD, dialing away. More rifles exploded, two bullets sparking off the DHD and one off the gate. Teyla flinched in response then hit the center orb that locked the address.

The gate exploded to life, beautiful and blue as the ocean, crystal bright light dancing over the snow. John whimpered in wonder, eyes blurring with tears even as bullets exploded the snow around them. Then he was shoved forward into that shimmering puddle of redemption, hurled across the cosmos like a shooting star.

John stumbled out the other side to drop in a heap on the ground. His heart skittered and chest stuttered as he tried to suck in oxygen that couldn't, wouldn't, reach his lungs.

"Sheppard? Sheppard!"

It was dark, but not solid dark. He was on his back staring up into a sea of stars that were eclipsed by a familiar face highlighted in silver-blue. Light flashed off of wide, terrified blue eyes.

"Oh, crap, no, no, no, no... Sheppard!"

John wanted to say something, he really did, but right now trying to breathe was a little more important. He felt himself being lifted upright by the shoulders to lean against something solid and soft.

"Sheppard! Damn it! Come on, breathe! Teyla, hold him." He was guided forward enough for a hand to thump him hard on the back between the shoulder blades. "Breathe, come on! Sheppard! Breathe! Breathe, damn it! We did not haul ass all that way and finally make a damn break just for you to drop dead on us now. Breathe!"

The thumps came harder, heavier, painful. An invisible band tightened around John's chest as his lungs shrieked for just a drop of air.

"Breathe! Please, Sheppard, come on!"

John squeezed his eyes shut against the increasing pain in his chest and black motes skittering in his eyes. He was trying, damn it! But something was wrong. There was no more room for air. His heart thrashed and the muscles of his ribs cramped like they were caving in, crushing him.

He was dying, and actually terrified about it.

"McKay, move!"

Then one massive blow slammed into his body hard enough bend his spine, loosening something in John's chest to send it slapping into the back of his throat. He sucked in air that poured into his starved lungs, and coughed, slapping more gunk against his throat.

"Oh, gosh," Rodney whimpered. "Ah hell."

Arms encircled him from behind with a head of long, soft hair resting against the back of his neck. A hand clasped him on the shoulder and another gripped the cloth of his sleeve.

"I'm okay," John rasped. "I'm okay."

It took him a moment to realize that the gate had shut down, leaving them in the warm darkness and perfect silence of another world.

John smiled and closed his eyes. "We're okay."

------------------------------------------

John opened his eyes to silver-gray twilight and thin mist coiling around mossy tree-trunks and bright-green ferns. He was sitting up against one of the trees, wrapped in the blanket despite the cool morning temperatures more like summer humidity compared to the the harsh winter they'd left behind. John pulled in a breath of sweet, moist air that caught when his lungs' capacity reached its limit. He coughed harshly.

An arm slid across his shoulders, holding on as he was pushed forward for a broad hand to slap his sore back until the gunk cleared. He was eased back when the jag finally died down. John rolled his head to the side to see Ronon next to him, touching shoulder to shoulder.

"Hey Ronon," John wheezed.

Ronon blinked lethargic eyelids. "Hey Sheppard."

John cleared his burning throat. He'd give a year of his life for some water right about now. "Where... where are the others?"

Another lethargic blink of sunken eyes in a sickly looking face. "Went to get help. Teyla knows the people on this world. Her people trade with them a lot. She said there should be people nearby. There's always someone living near the gate to ring the warning bell when the wraith come. Rodney went with her. She wasn't looking too good. Neither was he but he wouldn't listen."

John grinned. And McKay always harped on him about his stubbornness when it came to maintaining the well-being of others. He dropped the smile when he looked past Ronon's face to the blood-soaked cloth around his shoulder. "You're not looking so hot yourself."

Ronon shrugged his good shoulder in reply.

"Look," John said, grimacing as he tried to straighten himself out, only to slump back down. "Get a little shut-eye. I'll keep watch."

Ronon shook his head. "You're the one who needs rest. You almost killed yourself running to the gate."

And hadn't that almost ended up being a nasty bit of irony. It still could, actually, if the congestion killed him before they got home. But so long as his lungs got air, it was all good.

"All I have to do is keep my eyes open," John said. "I think I can manage that much. Just until Rodney and Teyla get back. Come on, big guy. It's my turn, anyways."

John couldn't say if he'd been convincing or if Ronon's exhaustion was too much to handle. The Satedan blinked once, twice, then on the third time didn't open his eyes. It was a little disconcerting until Sheppard saw the shallow rise and fall of his chest.

The sun rose spilling gold in shafts and spears through the heavy foliage. It was going to be a warm day. A beautiful, clear, warm day. It would have been easy to cave to the delusion of having woken up from a nightmare; a very long and vivid nightmare that had tossed their minds into another world while their bodies had remained on this world. John let his gaze wander, drinking in the green of moss, leaves and fern. Birds were singing, fluttering from tree to tree shaking dew off the leaves of the thinner branches. Vines tangling thick around the tree across from them bloomed small flowers like yellow and orange morning glories brilliant as flames. It was so bright, all this color. Almost blinding.

So beautiful. It made it impossible not to smile.

The clatter and squeak of rickety wheels reminded John that beauty wasn't safety. He stiffened, nudging Ronon in the ribs. The Satedan woke with a small start and sharp inhale, pushing himself up further against the tree. John could feel Ronon's muscles tense.

"You could really use some shocks on this thing. My ass is already killing me."

Both men relaxed at the irate voice floating their way. John craned his neck spying a wagon heading toward them pulled by something like a very hairy beige antelope with long, twisting horn. On the buckboard sat an Amish looking man with a long beard, round gut, and a straw hat, and next to him sat McKay.

Rodney hopped out of the wagon before it had come to a complete stop. "Hope you two like hay rides," he said. "Oh, and this is Jev Meskil, by the way. Jev, Sheppard and Ronon."

The man tipped his hat in greeting, then he and Rodney proceeded to load John, then Ronon, into the hay-covered wagon bed.

The trip wasn't a long one but definitely a rough that was going to add to their impressive bruise collection. Jev's house was located in the woods off the beaten path only a few yards from a small stream. John grinned at the rather fairy-tale-ish quality of it with it's moss-covered roof and walls that made it practically invisible. Jev's rather robust wife with a cherubic face and even more robust sons came out at the wagon's loud arrival to help get John and Ronon inside.

Everything had been prepared for them: fresh cloths laid out and bowls of musky-smelling ointments for Ronon's wound and a bowl of steaming water for John. Sheppard was deposited in the chair, Mrs. Meskil pushing his head over the bowl then covering it with a towel so the steam couldn't escape. Something had been added to the water giving it a pine-like scent that wasn't unpleasant to breathe. Whatever the stuff, combined with the steam, it loosened the crap in his chest for him to be able to cough more of it up and breathe easier. A bucket had been placed next to his chair for him to spit the crud out rather than having to swallow it. Beside him, Ronon grunted as his wound was cleaned and bandaged.

"Where's Teyla?" John managed to ask between coughs.

"Upstairs resting," Rodney said. "She was so out of it when we got here she was weaving like a drunk."

John turned his head lifting the towel enough to look at Rodney. "How about you?"

Rodney, pale with deep bruise-like shadows under his eyes and exhaustion oozing from him, shrugged. "I could use a nap." He adjusted the fresh sling cradling his arm. "These people may be back-woods but they know their stuff. My arm doesn't hurt as bad. I'd still take Carson's pain-cocktails, but it is a relief."

"Good," John said. "Then I suggest you take advantage of the pain-free moment and get some rest."

Rodney nodded wearily and stood to go trudging up the stairs John could just make out in the adjoining room.

John and Ronon joined Rodney and Teyla when their own health issues had been dealt with as best as could be. The Meskil "guest room" was large enough for all of them to share, with straw-pallets and blankets laid out for them side by side. Food was brought to them – bread, meat, steamed vegetables and broth: a practical Thanksgiving feast. For the first time in a long time, the team was able to eat until they were full.

The Meskils let them stay as they waited for an Athosian trading party to arrive. The world, Venhal, was known for the cloths and yarns spun from the wool of the enret – the hairy antelope – and Athosian trading parties came often exchanging crafts and seeds for the yarn.

Mrs. Meskil kept Ronon's wound clean but could not remove the bullet. And though the herbal water helped clear Sheppard's lungs, the illness was persistent. Three days had passed since their arrival and his fever spiked leaving him bed-ridden with a wet cloth on his forehead. He felt cold but wasn't allowed any blankets. When the fever spiked higher, it was his team and only his team that removed his shirt (and only his shirt) to wipe him down.

"They need to get here, already," Rodney said as he ran a wet cloth down John's spine. "Ronon needs that bullet out and Sheppard needs real drugs."

"I know, Rodney," Teyla said, wiping Sheppard's face. "It should not be much longer. It is the shearing season, when enret wool is plentiful. My people make more journeys to this world during that time." Determination duked it out with worry in her tone. John didn't blame her. He was feeling crappy enough to be a little worried himself.

Safe as they were, this wasn't home, and he'd very much like to live long enough to see home again. At least that much if nothing else.

John drifted more, the line between reality and dreams blurring. Rodney kept half-heartedly berating him about the nightmares that had him screaming and freaking during the night, scaring the nice family trying to help them. McKay was the one who seemed the most terrified.

"Let's just keep dialing the gate until they get annoyed enough to send a jumper over and check out what the hell is going on," John heard Rodney say. Everything heard after that he couldn't tell whether it was dream-dialog or not.

So he easily thought it was a dream when Teyla whispered to him with barely contained emotions that her people had finally arrived. He thought it was a dream when Rodney ran into the room, babbling and gesturing at John, with Carson following in after. He thought hearing that brogue was a dream, even feeling the cool membrane of the stethoscope on his chest and back a dream.

It wasn't until an I.V. needle pricked stinging into his hand that he finally realized it wasn't. Shock and adrenaline surged through John giving him the strength needed to lift his head and stare bug-eyed at a smugly grinning McKay.

"Guess what," Rodney said. "We're going home."

John just blinked, unable to respond. Hell, unable to even think. A stretcher was brought up and John's partially exposed body wrapped in a soft gray, Earth-made blanket before he was moved to the litter. They carried him from the house to the jumper parked meters away in a clearing. Rodney walked beside him the whole way. Teyla and Ronon were already loaded up, Ronon with an I.V. of his own and fresh, white bandages around his shoulder. The stretcher was set on the floor and John lifted up to be placed between Ronon and Teyla so he could breathe easier. Rodney dropped down beside Teyla, his smile so big it was amazing his face could manage it.

They were going home.

The bay door closed and the jumper lifted off; up, over, then down into the already activated gate. John swallowed, heart hammering, meager muscles tightening as they slipped into the event horizon. One cosmic ride later and they were easing out the other side into the gate room. Into Atlantis. Into home.

Home. They were home. They were _home_.

John pressed his lips together tightly at the sight of the gateroom then jumper-bay filling the view-screen. Moisture swelled burning in his eyes. He glanced at his team: Rodney's eyes bright and wet, tears flowing around the tremulous smile on Teyla's face, and Ronon with his head ducked hiding what was pretty much inevitable for all of them.

To hell with it. John let the tears fall.

They were home.

He sucked in a breath that hitched in a sob. A strong but shaking arm reached across his back to rest a large hand on Teyla's delicate shoulder. Teyla laid her her head on John's shoulder, gripping his left hand in her right, and Rodney's right hand in her left. John reached up to grip Ronon's sleeve.

They were home. They were home. Home!

Better than that, they were alive. All of them, together.

TBC...

A/N: At last! Am I right? Now all that's left is the epilogue chalked full of yummy comfort.


	9. Epilogue

Epilogue

Bullet to the shoulder, blood-loss, and the start of infection. Pneumonia, broken ribs, cracked wrist and emaciation. Underweight (though not emaciated) and a nasty cut on the head that spoke of a concussion now clearing up. Broken arm, wrenched shoulder, and mild congestion. All four were exhausted and undernourished but not to a dangerous extent.

It was the way the four had been clinging to each other, huddled and small like lost children and shaking with overwhelming joy that hadn't allowed for a single dry eye, which had broken Carson's heart. Everything that followed after spiked that pain like individual knives being buried in his chest.

All the flinching and cringing and shuddering at the lightest touch or abrupt hand gesture, for Sheppard, Teyla and Rodney mostly. Ronon was too preoccupied watching the others with a look of nervous concern and a tense posture of one ready to jump into action and provide comfort at the slightest whimper.

The cuts that would turn into scars and the ones that already had; whip lashes on Sheppard, Rodney and Teyla – heaviest on Sheppard – and knife scoring on Ronon. And they were all so thin, poor John and Teyla giving Carson the impression that all it would take was a sudden gust of strong wind to carry them away.

It was amazing they had made it at all. Then again, stubborn resolve and Ronon and Rodney wouldn't have given them any other choice.

Ronon needed surgery, about two hours of it. Sheppard heavy antibiotics and a vitamin regime. Though Teyla's concussion was barely existent, Carson sided with caution by waking her every few hours. And it would be a while before Rodney had full use, as well as range of motion, of his arm.

Carson procured the team some decent privacy by setting them up in the remotest sector of the infirmary. He also made it his personal duty to check on them when he could rather than handing it off to a nurse.

Beckett was no psychologist. He understood the workings of the human mind as far as it pertained to any current method of healing. Heightmeyer attempted to explain the mental consequences to look for, but it was all techno-babble with no real certainties. The only certainty was that there would be consequences.

Everything they needed to know Ronon was the one to tell them. Details be damned because "we were captured and sold as slaves" added to the physical evidence of abuse filled in the blanks. Kate, trained to maintain neutrality, warned to be prepared for the possibility that there might not be any kind of recovery, if not for all of them then for some.

Carson couldn't buy it, he just couldn't. Not with this team.

Some days, more than once through out the day, he was content to stand out of sight and just watch them. It began as a never ending need to push on him their presence, take them in down to the smallest movement, and so made him witness to a thing of beauty.

It took Teyla to calm Sheppard or Rodney when they were dreaming. A rub to the back while whispering assurances or humming a song. It was bloody-well amazing considering Sheppard's volatile aversion to touch that almost had Carson restraining him on two occasions. Only Teyla and Rodney had what it took to settle him, mostly Teyla with her being the closest and the most comfortable with it.

When it was Teyla dreaming, then it was Sheppard's turn. If the stubborn bugger was awake enough to hear so much as a sniffle or whimper, he was out of bed using his I.V. pole as a crutch and shuffling on shaking legs, no matter the protests or threats from whoever was taking vitals that hour. And protest and threat was all the nurses could do, too nervous about man-handling that fragile looking body back to bed. Sheppard cooperated when and only when he was certain whoever was suffering had stopped suffering. Carson could never bring himself to berate the poor man, just be close by enough to catch him if he fell. Not surprising though it should have been, he never did fall.

Rodney, bless his ever obnoxious hide, was there when John or Teyla couldn't be. And he never hesitated, nervous as he seemed when giving an awkward back rub or pat to the shoulder. He and Teyla held John's hands giving him something to cling to and ride out the pain of having his lungs drained. Carson could have sworn he caught the flash of a tear as McKay gripped Sheppard's quaking shoulder.

And Ronon, even more of a stubborn bugger than John. It took slipping a mild sedative into his I.V to get him to rest. The man couldn't get it through his sleep-addled brain that there was no longer a need to keep watch.

They took turns, each of them, Rodney and Teyla in the beginning when John and Ronon had been too weak. Not one woke screaming fit to burst a lung. Not one bolted from their bed to go huddle in some corner. There was no thrashing, no increased complications from fighting enemies that were not there.

And every so often, they would smile.

Recovery would be long and difficult, no doubting that. But there would be recovery. Carson believed it with every molecule of his being. There was nothing this lot couldn't accomplish when they were accomplishing it together.

----------------------------------------------

Three Weeks Later

For the sake of Atlantis' safety, the team had a story to tell, but only to Heightmeyer. Kate managed to coax from them what needed to be known – that the city wasn't compromised – felt the necessary evil premature and let Elizabeth know it one day while sitting in her office.

"Ronon was more open, no surprises there. Rodney was the most difficult. John and Teyla I had to use their sense of responsibility against them. I felt like I was pushing them into a guilt trip. I didn't prod them for details, but needless to say it still left them shaken."

It made Elizabeth feel a little like the bad guy. Kate either sensed the attitude or saw it and called Elizabeth on it.

"Past experience hasn't afforded us many luxuries, time especially. This had to be done eventually. But from here on in I'm taking the sessions slower. Anything else that needs to be known will just have to wait."

Which was more than fair enough.

Elizabeth also felt like an outsider when it came to the team. Conversation with them individually consisted of uncomfortable small talk, and as a group barely any talk at all. Too soon, she knew, making it difficult to approach any of them most of the time, although John or Rodney would approach her; John to ask her how she and the city was, his surreptitious way of resuming his duties without any actual resuming; Rodney ensuring no one was butchering any of the projects he'd left behind. Teyla was spending more time with her people though she always came back at the end of the day. Ronon just wandered as though he'd forgotten how to stay in one place.

The rest of the time they were like ghosts, vanishing off the face of the world, going where no one could find them. Kate assured that this was nothing more than a coping mechanism, but it still made Elizabeth restless. She always wanted to seek them out when they vanished, make sure they were all right, yet felt she didn't have the right to. Even Carson was hesitant about it.

Here the team was, home, and it was easy to forget that. Elizabeth sometimes found herself missing them again as if they were still gone. Even within sight she missed them; missed how they were, missed how it used to be. It was selfish to want life to revert back to the way it had been, because it always involved wanting to forget what caused the change in the first place. It made light of the hell the team had been through, which wasn't fair to them.

So Elizabeth shoved back the desire to always seek them out. When she became too restless to sit still, she would wander to the infirmary in hopes of catching at least a glimpse of them, give them a small greeting in passing if she could and settle for that much at least.

"Think they'll be all right, Carson?" she asked.

Beckett, fussing with replacing items on a metal shelf, shrugged. "I'm not the one to be asking, lass."

"I'm asking for your opinion, not a clinical assessment," she replied.

Carson sighed and set the box of new medications on the counter by the shelf. "John, Teyla and McKay have developed a bit of an aversion to touch, and Ronon gets down right feral if anyone makes one of the team so much as cringe. I think this just one of those situations where it's going to take a bloody long amount of time to get over, and even then there's going to be a residue of the experience affecting them. But they're a strong bunch. I honestly believe it impossible for them not to overcome this."

Elizabeth believed that, had to believe that, even with what she was seeing trying to tell her otherwise. Sheppard, so damn thin it hurt to look at him, taking complicated routes or the long way just to avoid the chance of brushing up against other people. Rodney, always flinching, cringing, if someone so much as raised a hand. Teyla, subdued, having to force herself to make eye-contact. And like Carson said, Ronon could get quite vicious when it came to watching his teams' backs. He almost had Dr. Munce wetting his pants after barking at him for hounding Rodney about the physics department hogging some lab in some sector. While Elizabeth practiced easy restraint in avoiding forced normalcy, many in Atlantis couldn't get it through their heads to issue the same courtesy. Although it didn't help that Rodney had re-immersed himself back into his work.

It all added up to making Elizabeth feel justified in her concern. She never consciously sought them out, but always kept an eye open for them where ever she went.

Which is how she came upon them in the rec-room while she was heading to her quarters. It was the sound of Teyla laughing that had her pause and back-track to lean against the entrance, watching the four watch the Ancient screen. There was no movie, just a video game, a car racing one with Ronon up against Rodney. The four sat side by side on the floor, Ronon and Rodney on the ends with Teyla and John in the middle and blankets over all four laps. Ronon kept trying to run Rodney's car off the road, Rodney outmaneuvered him with a smug "ha!", Sheppard offered pointers and Teyla was all grins over her teammates' antics.

Elizabeth just stared at them, finally getting to see what she had missed for so long, silencing the doubts that wouldn't let her forget the possibility that there might be no recovery for any of them.

Like hell.

Okay, so what she was seeing she wouldn't call a miraculous turn around, where everything had automatically fallen back into place with all else forgotten. It was merely a moment of quiet, one that would be followed by other moments as the four came to realize just how over everything they'd been through was. They would remember safety, trust, contentment and gradually – imperceptibly – begin to shift, refilling the void of their regular lives until everything now was just a memory. It was the way they were. Pushing on, moving on, and making sure they didn't go it alone. In the months they'd been gone, Elizabeth had almost forgotten that. Very foolish of her, really. She'd seen what this team could do. She was seeing it now.

It was more probable that there would be recovery, because Carson was right: they are a strong bunch.

And they were home.

The End

A/N: It's over! (Sniffle, sob, sniffle). And I'm sad that it is. As hard as some of the chapters tried to be, I really enjoyed writing this. I do plan on, one day (when I have it more planned out) writing a tag to this that involves some more healing both mentally and physically, I just haven't decided how to go about it though I have several ideas.

What do you guys think? Should it involve, maybe, a return trip to earth for R and R? (I know it sounds a bit cliché but they're such fun stories to write, and I haven't been able to do many.) Should they stay on Atlantis? Maybe they go hang with the Athosians. I'm open to suggestions.


End file.
